


As Is the Sea Marvelous

by blackkat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Bickering, Brief Abuse, Brief Psychological Torture, Brothers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Human Train Wreck!Madara, Humor, Imprisonment, Insecurity, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, Snark, but probably - Freeform, slooooooow build, these tags are terrible but it's more or less a damned comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tobirama is willing to give absolutely anything for Hashirama and his dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and the earth withers

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt that spawned this was left by a truly fantastic anon over on Tumblr, who gave me a whole bunch of MadaTobi ideas that I am currently neck-deep in. And writing, because obvs I need more WIPs just when And the brave man exploded and Snake & Wolf, horrifyingly enough, looks to be heading the same way. 
> 
> The title/chapter titles comes from ee cummings’ _As Is the Sea Marvelous_ , because somehow ee cummings just relates to Tobirama in my brain. Especially this poem, given the subject matter.

 “How could you, Tobirama?”

He’ll never show it, but the words hurt. They stab deep under his skin, needles he can never get away from, laced with the poison of Hashirama’s disappointment. It’s there in his eyes, the disbelief, the sadness, the guilt—because always, always Hashirama has taken everything upon himself, even—especially—when he shouldn’t.

But Tobirama will never, ever let his brother see just how much those words affect him. Hashirama can be good and kind and honorable, but that won't win them anything except more death in the long run. Maybe someday, his dreams will stand. Right now, however, their world is fractured and bleeding and dying around them, in its final throes. Hashirama is trying to lead them to a better existence, but with enemies at their throats and devastation at their backs, there is no time for that. Let Hashirama cling to hope and happiness and bright, warm dreams. Tobirama will be the practical and cold and ruthless one.

Someone has to be, after all.

He wonders, sometimes, if Hashirama forgets that Tobirama grew up in the same world as he did, if he overlooks the fact that Tobirama once held that dream of peace just as dear. Does he think he and Madara are the only ones who lost brothers, who grieved? Because Itama and Kawarama were his blood, too, and he loved them just as dearly as Hashirama did. He saw them buried, mourned alone and in silence because he was their father’s pride and not allowed to show weakness. And while Hashirama disappeared to skip rocks across the river in company of their enemy, Tobirama remained, the focus of Butsuma’s will. He became the soldier Hashirama wouldn’t, killed all the small bits of childishness that his brother clung to, and never once voiced a word of complaint.

Always, always Hashirama looks at Tobirama, sees the perfect shinobi their father wanted, and despairs.

Always, always he forgets that Tobirama became what he wouldn’t, couldn’t, and in doing so gave Hashirama as much freedom as he could.

“It was war,” he says now, and long practice keeps his tone even, almost flat. Let Hashirama think what he wants. Izuna was their enemy; if Tobirama hadn’t faced him, hadn’t stepped in front of this Uchiha whose only equal is Madara himself, dozens of Senju would have died. Tobirama has faced Izuna before, seen him fight countless times, and knows that Izuna at least wouldn’t have hesitated to kill. Because of that, Tobirama couldn’t, either.

“It was unnecessary!” Hashirama cries, and from the grief on his face one would think that it was his brother who had been struck with a mortal blow.

Tobirama thinks of asking him who he would have sacrificed in Izuna’s place, which of the Senju with whom they grew up he would have surrendered to Izuna’s blade. Tōka, perhaps, with her sharp tongue and sly smile? Kenshin, silent as a thief and self-appointed caretaker of any orphans? Takuma, everyone’s friend, always ready to lend an ear to troubles?

But Hashirama doesn’t think that way. He doesn’t weigh gains and losses like Tobirama does, but forges ahead on blind optimism, and though Tobirama loves his brother more than anything in existence, it makes him angry. Because Hashirama lives in a fantasy world where hoping for the best will make it so, while Tobirama is confined to reality, forced to face the hard choices his brother will never make. Maybe, someday, Hashirama will grow out of it, learn to see the truth of what peace will cost.

Somehow, though, Tobirama doubts it.

Hashirama is a dreamer. It’s both his greatest asset and his greatest weakness. He sees potentials, possibilities, and they're incredible—larger than life, the perfect future everyone reaches for, a goal to set one’s sights on and strive for through fire and flood and the very deepest despair.

Tobirama can't be that. He can't fathom it, can hardly even bring himself to believe the fantasies his brother spins of peace and prosperity and children running and laughing rather than learning how to kill. What his eyes see is what surrounds them now, the war and death and pain of a world tearing apart. Oh, Hashirama will always offer comfort and solace and encouraging words, will walk among their clan and try to raise the spirits of a people all but crushed by war, but Tobirama is the one who rations their food, takes or assigns dangerous missions because they earn the most, and sends shinobi out to die.

He wishes he could dream, could be like his brother. But for all his genius Tobirama can be nothing other than what he is, and he will have to learn to make that enough.

Taking a slow, careful breath, he forces himself to lift his chin, to meet Hashirama’s eyes squarely. The disappointment there is nearly enough to make him flinch, but he doesn’t allow himself to look away. “I don’t understand why you're so angry,” he says, which is mostly true, though not entirely. “I did what I had to.”

“You destroyed any chance we might have had of peace!” Hashirama rails, and this time Tobirama does flinch. _You_ —pointed, piercing accusation, with only one culprit. “Madara will blame us all for Izuna’s death! He won't rest until he’s avenged him!”

Tobirama wonders bleakly, distantly, if Hashirama would ever do the same for him, were their positions reversed. But he already knows he wouldn’t; whether it’s because he’s more devoted to the idea of peace than Madara, or simply because Madara loves his brother more than Hashirama loves Tobirama—

Well. That part he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on.

“We are at _war_ ,” Tobirama repeats, trying to drive the information through his brother’s thick skull. “Brother, I know you and Madara were friends, but it has been _years_. The Uchiha Clan still opposes us; would you have us lay down our weapons and die? Would you let them raid our lands, kill whatever children they find, without striking back? That is foolishness.”

Hashirama rakes a hand through his hair, spins on his heel as though he can't bear to look at Tobirama for another second, and that hurts, too. “I know you, Tobirama,” he says, sharp with bitter frustration. “I know how fast you are. If you had wanted to, you could have turned your sword, injured Izuna instead of killing him. Why? Why, _just this once_ , couldn’t you show a little mercy?”

When Hashirama faces Madara, they do not fight to kill. It’s glorified sparring, meant more to keep others from engaging them than anything. Perhaps those watching can't tell, but Tobirama has seen his brother fight seriously and can see the difference. There is no threat of death in those matches outside of ill luck or carelessness, and Tobirama wonders whether Hashirama has forgotten what it is to _really_ fight, to give yourself over to instincts and the knowledge that one bare moment of hesitation will mean the end. He is a shinobi, trained and tested. In the midst of battle, with his opponent aiming to kill—Tobirama cannot do any less.

 _You know me_? he thinks, and no matter how he tries to prevent it, his bitterness creeps in around the edges. _Don’t make me laugh._

“Madara is one man,” he tries, even though he already knows it will be futile. “The clans are tired of war; there is still hope that—”

“It was Madara's dream too, Tobirama! Without him standing beside me it is practically meaningless!”

It feels like an impact, like a fist to the gut. Tobirama takes a step back before he can stop himself, breathless with the force of that blow, but Hashirama is too caught up in his emotions to notice. He turns, dark eyes wide, entreating Tobirama to understand. “He’s like a brother to me,” he says, nearly pleading. “Can't you understand? Peace was a dream we shared! To go forward without him—it will be _empty_. And now—now any chance of that is _gone_.”

Tobirama understands. He understands all too well. Had he turned his sword aside, had he been slower, Izuna would live, and Hashirama’s dream would still be intact. Of course, Izuna was Tobirama’s equal, and any hesitation would have meant Tobirama’s own death, but—

That is an acceptable loss, it seems.

It aches. It aches like his heart has been torn right out of him, to see the mingled despair and fury on his brother’s face. To look into brown eyes, usually so warm, and see only grief for what Tobirama has stolen from him. To see sorrow at the knowledge of a friend lost, even though Tobirama would have been killed had he acted any differently.

Madara is their enemy, but he will always be first in Hashirama’s regard.

Perhaps for the first time, Tobirama realizes just what that means for him personally.

(Perhaps he has always known, but simply never wanted to face that understanding.)

“I regret that my actions have caused you distress, Nii-sama” he manages, and it’s startling that his voice is still even, clear, no matter how formal and stilted the phrasing. He wants to choke on the words, but that will only make Hashirama look at him with that devastating regret in his eyes again.

(Or, perhaps worse, he won't look at Tobirama at all.)

Hashirama just waves a hand at him, looking away again. His face is creased with weariness, shoulders bowed. “Go away, Tobirama,” he says, and his voice is heavy with sorrow and fatigue in equal measure. “Just—leave me be, please.”

Tobirama bows to him, even though Hashirama doesn’t turn, but keeps his lips sealed on the desperate plea that wants to break loose.

 _Goodbye, Brother_ , he thinks, and only then does he realize what he’s planning.  

 

 

Tobirama is not good with words. He never has been. Hashirama is the speaker, the politician, the noble lord who can inspire crowds with a few strung-together sentences. In contrast, Tobirama would rather shut himself away with his scrolls and seals and weapons, would subsist entirely on his own company if he had that choice. He’s always played his part as the lord’s second son, as his brother’s heir until Hashirama has children, but it doesn’t come naturally.

Even words on paper are hard, and Tobirama hesitates, seeking words more often than writing them, as he arduously pens a letter for his brother. It’s tempting to make it short and blunt, to get to the point in a single sentence and leave nothing else, but in this nothing can be left to chance.

He tries. As the sun sinks below the horizon and the shadows stretch across the room, he writes and crosses out and redrafts and finally, finally comes up with something he does not entirely hate.

 _Dear Hashirama_ , he chooses to start it, because that is the absolute truth even if his brother will see it as an empty pleasantry. A brief explanation of his disappearance, a reassurance that this is his own choice, and it is. There is nothing forcing Tobirama down this path, nothing making him do this.

(Nothing except the heartbreak in Hashirama’s eyes, and the way he can't so much as meet Tobirama’s gaze.)

The letter is long, and a great deal of it is meaningless repetition, which would normally drive Tobirama spare. It pads the page, though, gives it more volume, and if Tobirama knows his brother Hashirama will take that for sincerity. Not—not _mistake_ it, because Tobirama is being sincere, in between the bits of inanities. But despite his claim, Hashirama doesn’t know Tobirama. He’s never truly tried. He does not know Tobirama’s dream for the future, because his own has always overwhelmed it; he does not know his fears, because Tobirama has never shared them. And a very large part of that falls on Tobirama’s shoulders, as he’s kept his brother at arm’s length, but—

But it was for Hashirama’s sake, most of it, and the rest was Tobirama’s natural reticence.

(He was jealous, once, when he learned that Hashirama was going to be wed to Mito. Not because he loved her, not because she was taking his brother away, but…Tobirama has always wanted a family. He’s very fond of children, loves teaching them and playing with them and simply sitting with them, seeing in their faces everything he was never allowed to be. And then Hashirama had had the makings of a family handed to him, already guaranteed, and he’d never, ever taken more time for it than he absolutely had to. Mito understands, because she’s a shinobi herself, because her father was the leader of the Uzumaki Clan, and she’s never blamed Hashirama for his inattention. But there's a faint loneliness in her eyes sometimes, one that Tobirama knows well.

It’s easy to love Hashirama. Easy to adore him. What’s harder is remembering that he’s always looking forward, always striding ahead, and that he has little time or attention to spare for those who can't keep up. And out of all the people Tobirama has met, only Madara ever could.)

 _I have put a price on the peace you dreamed of_ , he writes, and hopes that Hashirama will not blame himself. Even if he does, though, the deed will have been done, and he is not one to hold grudges. _It is only fitting that I pay it._

It’s a small cost, in the end. The Senju will be better for it, if this can end or at least ease hostilities. And Tobirama loves his clan, has always been willing to do what is required to keep them safe. He would much rather risk himself than any of them, and this is the best way he can think of.

_My only regret is that I will not see your dream come to be._

A lie, but a well-intentioned one, so Tobirama leaves it as it is. He has many regrets, many sorrows, but the greatest is that he cannot be the brother Hashirama has always deserved. Perhaps Itama would have managed it, had he survived. He had a soft heart, an easy smile, and followed Hashirama like a moon caught in a planet’s spin.

Tobirama supposes he will never know. Itama is nine years dead, killed by Uchiha shinobi—just another casualty in this long, pointless war.

As Tobirama himself will soon be.

He lays out the neat strokes of his name, then carefully folds the paper, seals it, and rises from his desk. For a moment, he hesitates, but…Tobirama is not a coward. He can be brave, though he would much rather be cunning. Gritting his teeth, he strips off his battle-stained armor and sets it carefully aside, then divests himself of every last one of his weapons. Even the happuri faceguard is removed, and he lays it carefully on the bed before he dresses in his rarely-worn off-duty clothes. They're musty from lack of use, creases from their folding prominent, but Tobirama smooths them with a grimace and tries to ignore that bit of untidiness.

Once, he heard a clan elder say that there is more bravery to be found in quiet resignation than great deeds. He hopes it’s true, because resignation is all he has right now.

A step out the door, letter in hand, and it’s the start of a new path. Tobirama takes a silent breath and forces himself to keep walking, forces himself not to falter as he strides down the hall and into the compound itself. His attire earns him several startled glances, especially so soon after a battle, but he ignores them and keeps moving.

His hair falls into his eyes without the faceguard to hold it back. It’s a little annoyance, in the scheme of things, but Tobirama can't quite remember the last time something irritated him more.

Tōka lives near the eastern wall, across a quiet courtyard, and his feet are soundless in the long grass as he makes his way across.  She always insisted that since it’s attached to her home and she’s the only person nearby, it shouldn’t be hers to maintain, but given that she’s a high-ranking shinobi she rarely has the time. Tobirama has teased her about it several times, but she’s never asked one of the clan’s retainers to do it for her. She’s certainly as stubborn as Hashirama, for all that they're only second cousins.

Steeling himself, Tobirama steps up to her door and knocks politely. He doesn’t have to wait long; less than ten second later, Tōka is pulling the door open, still dressed in her armor but with her hair out of its intricate topknot. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, then flicker over his loose kimono shirt, yellow sash, and simple blue pants. One brow lifts, and she drags her gaze back up, expression shading towards suspicious.

“Little cousin,” she drawls, propping one shoulder against the door and crossing her arms. “What a surprise. Is the world ending?”

It might very well be, at least where he is concerned, but Tobirama just gives her a faint smile. It comes out more pained than anything, and her other brow rises to join the first, worry overtaking the wariness. Before she can say anything, though—before his own courage can falter—Tobirama thrusts the letter towards her.

“If I don’t return in a week, can you give this to my brother?” he asks, more sharply than he intends to.

Cautiously, she takes it, tracing one long, pale finger over the seam. “I can,” she allows, though it’s clearly guarded. “You have a mission already?”

It’s a close enough assumption, so Tobirama nods. Tōka stares at him for another moment, frowning faintly, and then says, “I thought you’d already given me your farewell letters. Is this something special?”

Tobirama hesitates, not wanting to provide any information that could allow her or his brother to put the pieces together, should they look for him before the week is up. But he owes Tōka at least something, even if it isn’t the entirety of the truth. For as long as he can remember, she’s held his farewell letters, saved in case he fails to return from a mission or a battle, and he’s held hers. Beyond that, she’s his favorite of their relatives, and one of the few he would call a friend.

“Yes,” he says finally, though it’s reluctant. “If Brother asks for me, you may tell him I left, but…”

“He wouldn’t want you going out so soon after a battle, so keep it quiet until he says something,” Tōka finishes, because she understands him. Her darkly painted lips curve into a languid smile, and she offers him an equally lazy salute. “You know I love keeping secrets from the big dork. Count me in.”

Tobirama forces himself to smile at her, even though a faint twinge of guilt pulls at him. What would she say, if he told her the truth? How will she feel, having kept this from Hashirama, when the truth comes out?

“Thank you,” is all he says, offering her a grateful nod and then turning away.

Before he can take more than a step, though, Tōka has ducked around in front of him, expression far more gentle than her usual. She lifts a hand, brushing a few shaggy strands of silver hair from his face, and then says softly, “You should dress down more often. It suits you.”

This time, his smile comes more easily, and he catches her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Tōka,” he repeats, because there's little else he can give her.

With a chuckle, she pats him on the head, then steps back. “Any time, little cousin,” she returns, then waves and heads back inside, closing the door behind her.

Tobirama stares at the closed portal for a long moment, then shakes himself out of his fugue. A simple bound takes him up onto the roof of her house, and from there he leaps across to the wall and up it, then vaults over the far side to land lightly on the packed earth below. The sentries are moving, but they're heading away from him, and there's no one close enough to see him disappear into the trees. As a sensor, avoiding the traps in the forest is simple, and before the moon has even risen he’s moving quickly along the path.

The Uchiha Clan compound isn’t hidden, is hardly a secret given the number of times Senju have tracked patrols back there. Tobirama has few illusions that the Senju compound is any more secreted, but for once, it works in his favor. A little under half an hour to the river where Hashirama and Madara once met, then another half an hour from there to where the Uchiha live.

And then—

Tobirama isn’t a fool. He knows very well that even if he’s not killed on sight, he won't live more than a few seconds after being dragged before Madara. Not unless Madara is feeling cruel enough to resort to torture, but Tobirama is prepared for that as well. Tensions between their clans still run high, and with the death of the Clan Head’s brother it will only be worse, but…

Perhaps a life for a life will at least return things to normal. Perhaps killing him will satisfy Madara, because it was clear on the battlefield that Hashirama regretted Tobirama’s actions, and in this Tobirama acted alone. It was his fight, his jutsu, his sword-blow that felled Izuna. There's no need to drag anyone else into this, no need to take it out on the Senju when Tobirama is offering himself up to face the Uchiha’s justice.

His hair is in his eyes again. It’s still annoying.

Almost as annoying as the Uchiha patrol that starts following him from a distance the moment he crosses the river. Really, Tobirama thinks, irritated. How much success do they really think they’ll have, sneaking up on a sensor? And it’s hardly a secret that even among sensors Tobirama is in a league of his own. He can pinpoint the chakra of a single person from halfway across the continent; three mid-level shinobi ducking behind trees are hardly about to escape his notice.

He doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t so much as glance at them in acknowledgement. Part of it is pique, stung pride. Most of it, however, is the fear that if he does, if he looks back or wavers or even hesitates long enough to give them a sign that he sees them, he’ll stop. He’ll turn away from this path, go back to Senju lands and try to come to terms with Hashirama’s disappointment. Maybe he’ll manage it, and maybe he won't, but he knows that either way the shadow of it will hang over him for the rest of his days.

_You destroyed any chance we might have had of peace!_

Hashirama is an emotional man, more prone to cheer than anger, quick to regain his humor whenever he loses it. It’s possible he already regrets those words, that he spoke them only in the heat of the moment and doesn’t actually blame Tobirama for lost opportunities.

But it’s equally possible that those were his true thoughts, and that he simply has never lost enough control to speak them before.

Tobirama is the one with the temper, between them, even if it’s an icy sort. He’s usually the first to snap, while Hashirama laughs and jests and makes light of things. This evening was unusual, and that’s enough to make Tobirama suspect that Hashirama truly meant what he said.

It aches like stitches pulled, like the memory of a small grave in the afternoon sun, freshly filled with dirt. In landing that one blow, in doing as he’s always been taught, Tobirama lost his brother. Lost the warmth in Hashirama’s eyes, the brightness of his smile, the comfort of his hand on Tobirama’s shoulder. And…perhaps it was arrogance, perhaps it was pure blind willfulness, but Tobirama had conceitedly thought that such a thing could never happen, no matter how different he and Hashirama were. Even if he has never managed to be what Hashirama needs, he had assumed that, as brothers, there was nothing he could do to drive Hashirama away.

How painful it is, to be proven wrong.

It takes effort not to stumble, not to let his feet waver on the hard-packed earth of the road. Just for a moment Tobirama pauses, resting a hand on the trunk of a slender young oak, and allows his shoulders to bow, his head to fall. He thinks of Hashirama, the disappointment in his face. Thinks of Izuna, proud, stubborn Izuna, falling before his sword. Remembers the way Madara screamed, the hate in his eyes as he’d raced to his brother’s side.

For the first time since he left Hashirama’s presence, he thinks of what this will mean for him. Thinks of ending, of death, of dying at Madara's hand. He’s scared—only a fool wouldn’t be. Madara is going to kill him, he is going to die, and…

In doing so, he will pay the price for turning Madara against Hashirama like this. He will face justice for stealing Izuna’s life, far more immediately than he ever expected to. He will protect his clan, ease Hashirama’s grief, give everything he has for the dream Hashirama has always believed in so passionately.

His life has been good, what he has lived of it. There has been no peace, no rest, no escape from the constant cycle of bloodshed, but Tobirama has never known anything different. He regrets, now, that he will never see the world change, but is content to know that he goes to his death to lay the foundation Hashirama will build upon. It makes his looming mortality easier to bear.

A breath, slow and careful, and Tobirama pushes himself back upright. His hand lingers on the tree’s smooth bark, because the forest will always make him think of Hashirama before all else, and this is his private farewell. Then he opens his eyes, lifts his chin, and keeps walking.

To his left, one of the Uchiha scouts hurries ahead, likely going to warn the clan of his approach. That almost makes Tobirama waver again, but he fixes his gaze ahead and forces himself on. One way or another, this will be ending soon, and Tobirama has no preferences for how he will die. Whether Madara comes himself, or a squad takes his head and carries it back to Madara, or they simply drag him before the man in chains, Tobirama will still be dead at the end of it, so the method matters little to him.

He hopes, distantly, numbly, that Madara will not decide on torture. Tobirama has held out against such methods before, but that was always because he had a reason to. Torture simply for the sake of it, with the knowledge that no one is coming for him, that no one will even mark his absence until he is far past his breaking point—that is enough to leave him shaken.

In the tales, Tobirama thinks a little wry, marching to one’s death never seems to take quite this long, or contain quite this much uncertainty.

From ahead there's a sudden surge of chakra, a blur of impressions as a knot of shinobi take to the trees, using chakra to increase their speed. Tobirama looks up, following their progress, and can sense the two still tailing him tense. Careful to keep his body language open, unthreatening, Tobirama stops in the middle of the road, waiting until chakra-sense bleeds into more normal vision and he can see six shinobi in Uchiha colors marching down the road. Then, slow and deliberate, Tobirama raises his hands to show they're empty and carefully sinks to his knees in the dirt.

“I surrender,” he says clearly, and despite the situation still manages to take some amusement at the sight of every single Uchiha’s absolutely astonished expression.

There are footsteps, wary and hesitant, but Tobirama keeps his gaze on the ground before him. Then something hard taps his chin, and he allows the shaft of a pike to tip his head up, meeting furious dark eyes without wavering.

“It’s him,” the Uchiha says, somewhere between bewildered, savagely satisfied, and murderous. “Senju Tobirama, without a doubt.” The pike’s steel-capped butt knocks him under the jaw, painfully hard, and the man demands, “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

It takes all of Tobirama’s effort not to move, not to call up chakra or ready a jutsu or anything similar. Even without weapons, he’s fast and deadly, and not proving that to these fools goes against ever instinct he’s ever cultivated. But that’s not the point here; he hasn’t come to fight.

Inhale. Exhale.

“I am responsible for the state of Uchiha Izuna,” he says, and is once again astonished that his voice doesn’t shake. “I would offer Uchiha Madara the satisfaction of taking my life in recompense for my actions, which I regret.”

The leader stares at him for a long moment before his mouth tightens. Without shifting his pike, he jerks his head, and the other Uchiha smoothly shift to surround them, weapons at the ready. One, a woman with a stark burn scar on the left side of her face, steps forward and grabs Tobirama’s arms. She wrenches them behind him, twisting so that his hands are forced against his elbows, and then starts wrapping them in ninja wire. Tobirama is reluctantly impressed by her thoroughness; practically any attempt at escape, or even any hard tug, will leave him cut to the bone and bleeding out.

As soon as she ties the wire off, two more Uchiha step forward to grab him by the shoulders and drag him to his feet. The scarred woman pats him down, brisk, thorough, and impersonal, and then steps back.

“He’s not carrying anything,” she says, sounding disconcerted. “Not even a kunai.”

Tobirama meets the leader’s startled stare, holding it without hesitation. Distantly, a corner of his mind that never quite shuts off contemplates the truth of the elder’s words, heard when he was just a child: all that is left in him is resignation now, not even a flicker of the shivery fear he felt just minutes ago. He is…accepting of his fate, prepared to face whatever Madara decides for him, and he sees the realization settle into the man before him, understanding flickering to life.

“I didn’t think Tobirama of the Senju could even feel regret, let alone act on it,” the man says, clearly testing him.

In any other situation, Tobirama might laugh. Do they think him an unfeeling caricature of a man, a golem made out of stone and killing intent? He’s as human as they are, and Tobirama has yet to meet a single man in all the world who is entirely without regret. As it is, though, he simply inclines his head, and moves without resisting when the pair of guards shove him forward. The woman takes up a position right on his heels, and the leader waves them forward, his mouth pulled into a tight, grim line.

“Let’s go,” he orders. “Lord Madara will be waiting.”


	2. the moon crumbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madara isn’t a nice person, and he definitely isn’t presented as such here. He’s vicious and petty and angry, and if that’s going to squick you it would probably be best not to read further. There’s not going to be any outright physical abuse beyond an angry punch or two and some manhandling, but the Sharingan’s genjutsu ability does come in to play here. I promise things will get better, though! It’s not going to stay this dark for long.
> 
> That said, I'm absolutely overwhelmed by the response to this, even just one chapter in, so thank you to everyone!

Helplessness is a pain worse than any that has come before it. Madara sits at Izuna’s bedside, gripping his hand, listening to the rasp of his uneven breath getting slower and slower. There is nothing to be done, no way the medics know of to help him, and so Madara's little brother is dying an inch at a time.

Later there will be time for rage. Later there will be time for hate. For now, the only thing in Madara's heart is a desperate, tearing sort of grief, the desolation of knowing that soon, the last of his brothers will meet his end. And, worst of all, there is no way Madara, with all of his ability, can even slow the approach of death.

He curses Tobirama. Curses his own preoccupation with Hashirama, that he hadn’t noticed Izuna’s peril in time to save him. Curses the Senju for this bloody war, for his brothers long since lost, for the grief in Hashirama’s eyes when Izuna fell. He doesn’t want anyone’s sympathy.

He just wants his little brother to survive.

The slim fingers he’s gripping so tightly twitch and Madara catches his breath, watching the way Izuna’s eyes flicker restlessly beneath the thin eyelid. He lets out a short, breathless sound of pain and Madara feels like he’s been gutted, like someone has ripped the lungs from his chest. With a soft cry that is fraught with pain and frustration, Madara bows his head, pressing his forehead to the back of Izuna’s hand. The skin is cold and getting colder, and Madara can practically feel the life slipping out of him, draining away through the deadly wound beside his spine.

“Please,” he whispers, but can't even bring himself to finish the plea. That will mean saying _don’t die_ or _don’t leave me_ , and Madara refuses to so much as acknowledge the idea of a world without Izuna in it.

He would give his life for his brother in a moment, if that would save Izuna. Would give it happily, without hesitation or regret, because there will be nothing left for him, of him, if Izuna passes. The world will become a black, empty, gaping pit, swallowing up whatever remains of Madara's sanity and leaving him with absolutely nothing. His clan will go on, but Madara will be left a ghost, a shadow, a wraith prowling for blood and ever-hungry for revenge. Nothing will be able to save him, and worst of all, Madara will not want to be saved.

He fears what he’ll do, if that comes to pass.

There's a knock on the door, barely audible even in the stifling hush of the room, and Madara slowly lifts his head. He knows no one would dare disturb him unless it was a matter of life or death, and it’s only the reluctant acknowledgement of that fact that makes him turn, staring blankly at the woman waiting there.

It’s a scout, one of the team sent towards the Senju compound, and she looks breathless and anxious in equal measure. The moment his eyes land on her, she dips into a low bow and says quickly, “My lord, we came across Senju Tobirama in the forest. Three squads went to detain him. They should be returning shortly.”

The white-hot surge of fury that erupts in Madara's veins makes him snarl. He’s on his feet before he can even think of moving, halfway across the room and striding towards the door. The kunoichi flinches out of his path, ducking her head again, but Madara doesn’t spare her so much as a glance.

He thinks of Tobirama’s cold expression, unwavering even as he drove his sword through Izuna’s flesh. Thinks of the flick of one hand that sent bright beads of blood scattering from a sword, and he _hates_. Hates with a fury as hot as the sun, more deadly than any poison. All he can think of is driving Tobirama to his knees, hearing him beg for mercy as Madara returns the favor and leaves him to die with agonizing slowness, abandoned in the dirt as he deserves.

Somewhere beneath the anger is concern, a fain flicker of panic, because he’s seen Tobirama fight and nine shinobi will hardly be enough to bloody his blade. Three squads at risk, nine more Uchiha who will fall before the pitiless monster, and Madara can't allow that. He grabs one of the decorative gunbai on the hallway wall and breaks into a run that blurs the world. Three long bounds carry him across the main courtyard, then another takes him through the gates just as they open and—

He stops short, eyes narrowing. Because the squads are approaching, all nine shinobi alive and unwounded, warily grouped around the man walking between them. A familiar man, except not as Madara has ever seen him before. There's no armor, not faceguard, no marks of any weapons, and the usually-proud stance has been replaced by stooped shoulders, a bowed head.

It isn’t anywhere near enough to temper the rage.

“ _You_!” he snarls, moving forward in a blur that sends shinobi scattering before him. Tobirama looks up at the sound of his voice, eyes locking on him, and then Madara is right in front of him, gunbai abandoned, swinging hard.

It’s only when he’s standing over the sprawled form, knuckles stinging from the force of the punch, that he realizes. Tobirama didn’t try to dodge. He didn’t even move with the blow to lessen its impact, and Madara is familiar enough with his speed and reflexes to know that he could have.

That’s enough to make him pause, words reasserting themselves, and he growls furiously, reaching down and fisting a hand in silver hair. He drags Tobirama back to his knees, jerks his head back at a painful angle and holds him there as he leans down to snarl in his face, “What do you want?! Have you come to finish the job, Senju?!”

Blood-red eyes fall shut and Tobirama breathes out, careful and slow. “No,” he says, a hoarse rasp. “I came to face your justice for my actions.”

Madara freezes, fingers tightening punishingly in the Senju’s hair. The rage is receding, washed away by a tide of confusion. On instinct, he lets his eyes bleed into the hyperawareness of the Sharingan, cataloguing everything about the man before him. Tobirama’s heart is racing, pulse fluttering rapidly in his throat, and his calm expression belies the very faint tremors running through him. They're too small to be an affectation, but…the only reason that Madara can think of for a reaction like that is—

Not just fear, but terror.

Tobirama has faced down the very best of the clans, Uchiha and Nara and Hatake and every other power in this fractured world, and not once has Madara ever seen him show even a hint of this tightly-bound panic.

Logic makes its reappearance, along with suspicion. Madara gives a low snarl and shakes Tobirama hard by the grip on his hair, making him open his eyes again. He meets Madara's gaze squarely, and it takes effort for Madara to ignore the fear that flickers there as well. “ _Justice_?!” he spits. “What justice can there be, when you're responsible for _my brother_ bleeding out?! The only thing you're good for any longer is _death_ , you bastard! Did you think that coming here would earn you my _mercy_?”

Another long, slow breath and Tobirama shakes his head just slightly. “No. I—knew.”

Knew what would happen, what Madara would feel upon seeing him. Knew he’d be lucky not to die on the forest road at some overzealous shinobi’s hand. Madara is savagely glad that he didn’t; he wants the satisfaction of tearing his brother’s murderer apart personally.

That thought gives rise to another, a twist of suspicion and bracing fury. He lets go with a hard shove, knocking Tobirama back into the dirt, and looms over him to hiss, “This is your plan, Senju? I wouldn’t have thought you had the guts, but I suppose it’s clever—I kill you, so Hashirama kills me, and any chance of ending this war is gone forever. You send us spiraling back into chaos with one simple move. Brilliant.”

Madara expects fear at being called out, fury that Madara figured out his plan, smug satisfaction that the Uchiha have played right into his hands. What he gets instead if a flicker of surprise, uncertainty, and then—

“No,” Tobirama says again. He twists, pulling himself back to his knees, and from this angle Madara can see that the ninja wire binding him has cut through the sleeves of his loose kimono shirt and into his skin, leaving deep lacerations that drip blood down his back. There's only savage satisfaction to be found in response; Tobirama spilled far more of Izuna’s blood, after all.

Another careful breath, clearly touched with pain but steady nevertheless, and Tobirama looks up to lock eyes with Madara again. “No,” he repeats. “Hashirama won't look for me for at least three days, and when he does— _if_ he does—Tōka will tell him I'm on a mission. When I—when I don’t return, after a week she’ll give him my letter. I explained everything. Hashirama won't seek retribution. I swear to it.”

Madara can't even comprehend such a thing. Not Tobirama’s words, not his certainty in Hashirama’s actions or lack thereof. They're brothers, aren’t they? Even with—with Tobirama _offering himself_ like some sort of sacrifice, if that’s truly what this is, Madara will have caused the younger man’s death. Surely Hashirama won't be able to overlook such a thing, the same way Madara wouldn’t be able to overlook Hashirama killing Izuna.

“Why?” he demands sharply, snatching at the collar of Tobirama’s shirt and giving him another furious shake. “You were safe hiding behind your brother! Why come when only death awaits you?”

The tremor in Tobirama’s muscles is easing, fading. There's only resignation left in his eyes, beating out even the fear there. “Because it was my doing,” he says simply. “I acted on my own, as a shinobi facing an enemy, and killed you brother. I know the pain of losing a sibling, Madara, and I can see the pain I caused Hashirama when I forced you to turn you against him. Were I able to rewind time, I would hold my final blow. As it is, this is all I can offer you for Izuna’s death.”

There's only confusion, twisting and tearing at Madara as the grief once did. He can't think on Tobirama’s words, can't pick them apart the way he normally would. Only one thing manages to stand out to him, and it makes him snarl with fury, dragging Tobirama up to turn and slam him against the wall of the compound.

“SHUT UP!” he screams, pressing an arm against Tobirama’s throat and cracking his skull against the wood. “SHUT UP, YOU BASTARD! STOP SAYING YOU KILLED HIM! IZUNA’S NOT DEAD YET!”

Something flickers in Tobirama’s eyes, and it’s only when life flares in them that Madara realizes it was ever gone. “He’s not?” Tobirama chokes around the block of Madara's forearm. And that’s—that’s hope, on his face, or Madara is completely blind, and witless besides. “I—take me to him,” the Senju says almost desperately. “Please, I can help him—there's a jutsu—”

“You’ve done ENOUGH!” Madara roars, slapping him across the face. “You murdering _filth_ —”

“I can,” Tobirama insists, facing him again without hesitation, one hair shy of desperate. “Madara, isn’t it worth it to let me try? At this point…”

He doesn’t finish, but Madara can hear the words hovering unspoken. _At this point, what more harm could I do?_ And—and he wants to refuse. Wants to say no, throw Tobirama to the ground and stab him through the heart right here and now, but—

But for all Izuna’s words on the battlefield, warning him not to trust the Senju, Madara wants to save his little brother more than anything. More than he cares for his safety, even, if there's the slimmest chance that Tobirama is speaking the truth. 

“…Tell me,” he demands after a long moment. “Tell me this technique.”

There's no flicker of triumph, as Madara half-expected. Just relief, blending in with calculation and cool determination as animation bleeds back into Tobirama’s features. Madara hadn’t recognized the change in him, but…the blank expression before had been a death-mask, a final front put up to fool the world. This is genuine, real, and the change is astounding.

“Cellular regeneration, fueled by a large concentration and steady influx of chakra,” Tobirama says carefully, watching Madara's face as if looking for comprehension. Startlingly, it reminds Madara that he’s used to dealing with Hashirama, who for all his genius doesn’t give a damn _how_ things work, only that they do. “It must be targeted and incredibly specific, but I've used it to regrow organs in animals. Never on a human, but I believe it will work.”

There's the very faintest hint of a challenge in his eyes as he holds Madara's gaze, a shadow of the Tobirama that Madara has faced across a battlefield, and the implication is clear. _Will you take the chance with your brother’s life or not? Will you put his life in my hands?_

Madara would. To keep Izuna alive, to keep Izuna breathing and beside him, he’d do much, much worse.

“Even if you save him,” Madara warns, voice shaking with a tightly bottled relief that’s matched only by his seething fury, “you won't escape. I’ll find the deepest, darkest cell we have and make it your tomb. But if you do save Izuna, I won't kill you myself.”

Tobirama doesn’t look surprised, just resigned, and nods once. With one last sneer, Madara jerks his arm away and takes petty pleasure in how the younger man crumples, landing hard on his knees at Madara's feet. He waves a hand, gesturing two of the watching shinobi closer, and orders, “Bring him. And send someone for a medic to observe the process.”

One of the men takes off towards the infirmary, while another two shinobi step forward to grab Tobirama and haul him to his feet. Madara doesn’t wait for him to find his balance, but strides back the way he came, heart pounding in his throat. He’s been gone barely ten minutes, but what if in that time the unthinkable happened? What if, in the very moment some small, faint bit of hope appeared, Izuna left the world entirely?

It doesn’t bear considering.

But his worry is for nothing; when he steps into the room, Izuna’s breathing is still steady, if ragged. Madara immediately crosses to the far side of the bed, sinking down on his knees and taking his brother’s hand again. Even as he does, Izuna’s eyes flicker, then slide open, and he takes a raspy breath. “Brother.”

“Izuna,” Madara answers, unable to resist reaching out to touch his cheek lightly.

Izuna smiles weakly at him, then manages, “You need—my eyes, so—”

Horror rises like bile, and Madara grips the cold hand tightly. “No,” he says, sees the anger and hurt flicker over Izuna’s face, and relents. “Not yet,” he allows instead. “We have one more thing to try.”

Confusion mixes with hope, and Izuna turns his head slightly. His eyes fall on Tobirama being dragged in, stumbling between two Uchiha with his arms still tightly bound, and he makes as though to reach for a weapon. Madara catches that hand, too, but doesn’t offer an explanation.

“Unbind him,” he says flatly, even as one of the medics ducks in behind them and closes the door. Kasumi, a scowl twisting the burn scar on her face, shoves Tobirama to his knees and quickly unwinds the wire, then steps back.

Tobirama doesn’t glance at her, doesn’t glare, doesn’t even rub at his bleeding arms. Instead, he rises to his feet, takes three steps, and folds to kneel again. One half-second glance at Izuna’s furious glare and then he looks away again, focusing on the wound. Chakra gathers around his hand, pale green, and he reaches out, eyes narrowing in concentration. After a moment of hesitation, the medic slips forward to kneel at the foot of the bed, placing a green-glowing hand of her own on Izuna’s leg.

“Well?” Madara asks her sharply, though he keeps his voice low.

The woman shakes her head. “Ran told me what he plans to do. I can't imagine anyone else managing it, Lord Madara,” she confesses. “Chakra control like that is incredibly rare, especially when coupled with the necessary strength. But—I think it’s working. He’s forcing the cells the divide more quickly, repairing everything from the inside.”

Madara supposes that if anyone has the precision and strength for such a thing, it would be Tobirama Senju. There's certainly nothing weak about him. To be able to defeat Izuna, who is very nearly Madara's equal, proves as much.

“Izuna?” he murmurs, glancing back at his brother, and is astonished to see that there's already color seeping back into his face, and his eyes are losing the glassiness they’ve had since the battle. He sucks in a full, deep breath, seeming startled that he can, and meets Madara's gaze with confusion and relief both clear.

“How—?” he whispers.

Madara simply shakes his head, turning narrowed eyes back to the Senju crouched across from him. Tobirama’s face is paler than usual, and there's sweat beading on his brow. His chest is heaving as though he’s been running for leagues, but his hands are steady and his red eyes are focused. As Madara watches, the glow around his fingers flickers, like a candle guttering in the wind, and he pulls back, sinking down on his heels with a sound that’s nearly a groan. He reaches up, as if to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but his hand doesn’t make it all the way, falling limply back to his side.

“Feeling?” he manages, even though he’s swaying like a drunk, and it’s clearly directed at Izuna.

Izuna hesitates for a long moment before he braces one elbow under himself and slowly pushes up. Surprise flickers across his face, and then he sits up fully, tugging his yukata back up over his shoulders. A twinge makes him wince, but Madara knows his brother, knows how he looks when he’s truly in pain, and that was the face he’d make to an overworked muscle, not a mortal wound.

He’s healed.

With a sound that’s purely relief, Madara lunges forward and snatches his little brother into a tight hug, all of his fear and worry and bleak hopelessness falling away like shed skin. He crushes Izuna to him, buries his face in feathery black hair, and laughs because the only other option is to cry.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and couldn’t say whether it’s directed at Tobirama or Izuna or the gods themselves. “Thank you, thank you.”

Izuna wraps his arms around Madara in return, stroking over his back, cradling his head and humming softly, the way Madara always used to when he soothed Izuna out of a night terror. “I'm okay,” he whispers back. “I'm alright, Brother, I'm okay. It’s fine.”

It’s not. Madara has never come so close to losing Izuna before, never stood on the precipice of an empty world and watched it rise to swallow him. Peace would be worth it if just for that, he thinks, if only so he never had to face that terror again. He knows already that Izuna won't agree, but—little brothers never do. Madara's argued him back to sense before; he can do it again, especially if this is what's at stake.

When he finally manages to pull away, Tobirama is watching them, his expression carefully blank, even though his eyes are heavy-lidded and he looks about to collapse where he’s sitting.

 _His fault_ , Madara thinks, and the thought is edged with crimson fury. Maybe it’s petty, but even with Izuna alive and well next to him he can't forget that just half an hour ago his little brother was on the verge of death.

“Take him to the cells,” he orders flatly. “And assemble a guard. I want him given no liberties.”

Kasumi steps forward, one hand hesitating at her weapons pouch, and then seems to come to a decision. Her mouth settles into a firm line, and she leans down to take Tobirama carefully by the elbow. A sharp look from her has her partner, Hikaku, rolling his eyes long-sufferingly and stepping forward as well. He takes the Senju’s other arm, avoiding the deep cuts, and together they get him on his feet. Tobirama lists slightly, stumbling, but keeps his balance as the pair guides him out. The door slides shut behind them with a soft thump.

There's a moment of silence before Madara turns away, only to meet sharp eyes that have always managed to see through his bluster. Izuna looks grim and serious, though there's a damnable and always destructive spark of curiosity buried in black eyes. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Let him rot,” Madara answers flatly, hoping that will be the end of it, and then pushes to his feet. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? I’ll find a servant—”

“I don’t think so.” With only the faintest grimace, Izuna follows him up, moving easily. He’s momentarily distracted poking interestedly at his former wound, but before Madara can even start to get his hopes up his little brother grabs his arm. “And don’t think you're getting out of telling me how the hell that even happened,” he adds pointedly, giving Madara a meaningful look.

Madara rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to fight the smile, full of relief, that creeps over his face. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises, and can't remember the last time he meant something more.

 

 

When they lead him to the cell, Tobirama collapses onto the hard cot, closes his eyes, and sleeps for an entire turn of the clock.

The next time he wakes up, Madara is waiting.

Slowly, Tobirama pushes himself upright on the bed, ignoring both the twinge in his arms and the furious Uchiha pacing outside the bars. He rakes a hand through his hair—still in his eyes, damn it—and takes a careful breath, trying to force his brain to work. Unlike his brother, he’s not a morning person. An early riser, certainly, but that’s mostly because he needs at least an hour and a very strong cup of tea to manage any sort of coherence. Edging in on chakra exhaustion only makes it worse.

One glance at Madara is enough to realize that he’s hardly going to be allowed any such leeway right now.

The fear that had returned when he was on his knees before the Uchiha is gone, faded into the low background buzz that would be just enough to sharpen his reflexes, were this a mission. It’s a shinobi’s friend, rather than the unnerving dread of staring death in the face without any way to counter it. Perhaps it’s because there are bars between them now; perhaps it’s because Izuna is alive and well again. Tobirama has solid, undeniable proof that his decision was a success, that his death, if it still comes to that, was not an empty gesture. Izuna is alive, and that’s enough to banish the bleak future Tobirama saw looming.

“I don’t believe you,” Madara spits, coming to a sudden halt and whirling to face him. He levels a threatening finger at Tobirama and adds in a snarl, “Sit there content, Senju, but I won't let you harm my clan, no matter what you're planning!”

The bluntness of lingering sleep, exhaustion, sheer relief—regardless of the reason, Tobirama rolls his eyes and doesn’t regret it. He leans back, bracing himself against the cool stone wall, and fixes Madara with a flat look. “I'm aware,” he says, and it comes out with a bit more of a dry bite than he had intended, but he doesn’t regret that, either. “But regardless of what you believe, Madara, I planned nothing beyond my arrival. I wasn’t even aware of Izuna’s continued survival.”

A mistake, to word it like that. Rage flares on Madara's face, fury and grief and terror all twisted up into something overwhelmingly bitter and vicious. He grabs at the bars because he can't reach Tobirama’s throat, and when he speaks it’s a malicious little hiss, deadly enough to raise the hairs on Tobirama’s arms in purely instinctive animal terror. _Predator_ , that tone screams, and Tobirama is in tune enough with his instincts to understand that.

“You’ve never been more fortunate, Senju. Any later, one breath less in my brother’s body, and I would have strung you up and cut pieces off for weeks, never letting you die even when you _begged_ for it. And you would. I promise you, you would have.”

The curl of a snarl, and black eyes spin to bloody crimson as the Sharingan comes to life.

Tobirama could look away; he knows as well as any shinobi the dangers of the Sharingan, which so easily blends reality and genjutsu. But he had come to Uchiha lands prepared for anything, braced for whatever torture or execution Madara would choose. That he’s escaped an outright death doesn’t change his resolve. If this is what will allow Madara's anger to abate enough for him to consider peace, so be it.

If this will be enough to save Hashirama’s dream, Tobirama will endure it without hesitation.

He meets Madara's pinwheel eyes squarely, and doesn’t allow himself to waver.

There's a flicker of chakra, a surge of _something_ , and Tobirama opens his eyes to find himself back on yesterday’s battlefield. Then, the skirmish was more or less equal, if tipped slightly in the Senju’s favor. Both parties had departed with similar losses, aside from Izuna and his near-mortal wound.

Now, it looks like a field of slaughter.

The clan members he’s grown up with, led into countless battles, talked with and mourned with and sparred with, all lie dead. The battlefield is littered with corpses, the ground stained a dark rust-red with spilled blood. Closest to him is Tōka, sprawled on her back with wide, sightless eyes gone dim with death. One hand is stretched towards him, futilely grasping, and her naginata is broken into three pieces beside her. Beyond her are others, corpses thick upon the ground, and Tobirama feels bile rise in his throat. He takes a step forward, the ground sucking at his sandals, and then can't manage a single centimeter more.

Somewhere tucked away behind his thoughts, in the very back of his mind, is the recognition that this is a genjutsu. A brilliant one, calculated to unnerve and deftly crafted, based on his own memories and greatest fears, but still an illusion.

In the face of so many dead, that can't even begin to matter.

The strength gone from his body, Tobirama sinks slowly to his knees. He closes his eyes, doesn’t touch any of the familiar corpses, but it doesn’t matter. He sees them anyways, and already knows that he always will. This is a scene from his nightmares, after all, common but all the more devastating for it, now sure to be revisited in exquisite, shattering detail whenever the night terrors come.

If Madara was looking to cause him pain, he couldn’t have chosen a better image.

 _Failed_ , a little voice whispers on the wind, bereft and hurt. The voices of countless dead, and Tobirama knows and could name each one of them. _Why didn’t you save us? Why did we have to die, while you lived?_

Tobirama is a strong man, accustomed to loss. He was born to war and has no doubt that he’ll die the same way, but—

He buries his face in his hands and tries very hard not to weep. He hasn’t in years, not since he was a very small child, and impending death or not, he won't let Madara bring him to that.

(Sometimes, sometimes, he thinks that if he ever starts he won't stop until he’s drowned himself with his own tears.)

 

 

(Madara tells himself that all he feels is satisfaction as he turns his back on the bowed, shaking figure in the cell. He tells himself that it’s justice, that the man who so nearly murdered Izuna deserves no less. He tells himself that the twisting lurch in his gut is not his conscience, but savage pleasure at Tobirama’s pain.

He tells himself that he believes it, that it’s true, and doesn’t allow his steps to falter.)


	3. stars flutter into dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people have raised concerns about (or asked for) non-con and/or Stockholm Syndrome. I can say with absolute certainty that neither of those will happen. If you were hoping for it, sorry, but I am physically incapable of making this story any darker than it is. (You might have noticed that my muses tend to be made almost entirely of kittens, rainbows, and snark?) As I said, last chapter was one of the darkest moments, and things do start getting lighter from here.

Beyond anything else, captivity is boring.

Tobirama knows he should be grateful, that he should take reprieves wherever he can get them. Knows he should be glad to have a few hours to himself after the scene yesterday. But it’s so damnably tedious being stuck in a cell without even the option to plot his own escape. He could, he knows. Izuna is better, and if he vanished now it likely wouldn’t do anything except make Madara angry. But…

But Tobirama has never been one to stop halfway when the path forward is still clear. He made his decision, his choice, and he won't waver from it.

(This is for Hashirama’s dream, and he can't risk any of his actions turning Madara against his brother yet again.)

With a sigh, Tobirama tilts his head back against the stone and closes his eyes, fed up with counting the bricks that make up the far wall. He can't touch his chakra in here, can't feel it as anything more than a vague, distant hum beneath his skin. The narrowed perception is aggravating; Tobirama can't recall the last time he was without his clarity as a sensor. Instead of leagues of awareness, the sharp pinpoint knowledge of every person nearby with a chakra signature, all that seems to exist is this cell, these four walls and the little strip of hallway outside.

It’s foolishness. It’s also why a good many sensors go mad when suddenly stripped of their chakra. The world folds down from three dimensions to just two, and everything that should be vivid and have depth is simply…flat. With his usual sight there are always points of reference. Without it, with those gone, all he has is a flat plane stretching out before him, and judging anything is hard. Not impossible, but irritating.

Hashirama always tells him he finds too many things irritating. Tobirama is firmly of the opinion that Hashirama doesn’t find _enough_ things that way. Surely such unceasing cheer can't really be natural.

The hiss of sliding cloth and the muffled click of sandals on stone makes him open his eyes again, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and sitting up. Another moment, and the very last person he was expecting to see steps into view.

“Senju,” Izuna says, more or less politely, and slides a bowl of rice through the opening in the bars. “Good morning.”

“Uchiha,” Tobirama returns, slightly wary. “Does Madara know that you're down here?”

Izuna settles on the stone, crossing his legs under him, and lifts his chin. “What my brother may or may not know has no bearing on my actions,” he says precisely.

“He doesn’t,” Tobirama concludes, very dry. “I take it this is your revenge?”

“How suspicious. I promise, if I was angling for your death, I’d just play up the emotional trauma of my formerly mortal wound and tell Madara only your head on a platter would make me feel better,” Izuna informs him, face perfectly straight, and then, “Eat. You look even pastier than usual.”

“This coming from an Uchiha?” Tobirama counters, but leans forward to pick up the bowl nevertheless. It’s still warm, and there are several pickles arranged neatly around the edge. No chopsticks, but given that he’s a prisoner and a shinobi that’s to be expected. With a faint grimace at the untidiness, he dips his fingers in and picks up a chunk of rice. Then adds, a little grudgingly, “Thank you for the food.”

Izuna tips his head a little, watching with uncannily sharp black eyes. “Of course. We’re not monsters, no matter what you think.”

That earns him a soft snort. “No. I believe that’s what I am, according to your brother.”

Smiling faintly, Izuna inclines his head, acknowledging the statement. “Madara can be overprotective, as I'm sure you noticed. Which makes me curious: you had to have known what would happen, coming here with me on my deathbed. Even for a Senju, that was a stupidly optimistic move.”

“Optimistic?” Tobirama scoffs. “Not all Senju are mindlessly happy fools, no matter what image my brother might give you. Some of us can see the reality of situations.”

“Then why do it?” Izuna challenges, and though his tone is even his eyes are intent. “Even for a shinobi, going unarmed to your death by torture is quite the gesture, especially given the fact that _you_ were the one to deliver the blow that nearly killed me. And last I checked, Senju, we weren’t friends.”

 _That would be our brothers_ , Tobirama wants to say, but doesn’t. He feels no need to leave a trail of clues for the other man to follow. And he definitely has no intention of revealing the truth; that’s his business and no one else’s. Pointedly, he keeps his mouth shut, focusing on his food.

Izuna isn’t quite immature enough to huff in indignation, but the measured exhalation he gives is equivalent. He rises to his feet, taking a step forward to close a hand around one of the iron bars, and his voice, when it comes, is as cold and biting as sharpened ice. “Senju, don’t test my patience. We’re not friends. We’re enemies. If you hadn’t struck when you did, I would have killed you and not mourned for an instant. So why the sudden change of heart? Why save me when there's no gain in it for you?”

The words stab deep, pry up his composure by the roots, but Tobirama does his best not to let it show. He breathes out, long and slow, and says carefully, “No one wants this war to go on any longer, Uchiha.”

“Lie,” Izuna counters flatly. “Some people would be happy if it ended tomorrow, but most only want revenge for the deaths that came before. I believe in balance, Senju. The two most powerful clans, locked in combat, with neither one permanently gaining ground—that was what we had until you destroyed it.”

The words echo those spoken by a very different man just a handful of days ago. _You destroyed any chance we might have had of peace_ , Hashirama said, and now Izuna is insisting that he destroyed any chance of balance. Two sides of a coin, even if they don’t know it. Tobirama breathes out a breathless, soundless laugh, and finally raises his eyes to meet Izuna’s stare. “Balance is peace,” he counters.

“It’s actually not.” Izuna smiles bleakly. “Balance couldn’t care less about those caught in the wheel so long as it keeps spinning. As it was, the Uchiha and the Senju kept each other in check. Sometimes the Senju would be stronger, and sometimes the Uchiha, but we always ended up back at the same starting point. My brother is a dreamer, Senju, no matter how he tries to pretend otherwise. He likes to think that we can create a new wheel, a new system. We can't. Any attempts will just land us further along in the cycle, because one side will take advantage. I can't allow that, not when there's a chance of the Senju pulling ahead, and my clan paying for it.”

Tobirama can't remember the last time he heard something that idiotic from someone who wasn’t Hashirama. He opens his mouth to scoff, but before he can dark eyes narrow, angry and accusing. “Or,” Izuna snaps, clearly seeing that he’s about to protest, “that’s how it _was_ until you pulled this idiotic stunt and knocked the wheel right off its bearings. Now—”

“Now, going by your logic, your entire metaphor is obsolete,” Tobirama interrupts, his temper fraying quickly. He holds Izuna’s gaze without wavering. “If the wheel is gone, your argument against trusting the Senju falls flat, because there is no preexisting framework to hold us back.” He snorts in disgust. “Stop using the idea of some cosmic circle as an excuse to cling to your prejudice, Uchiha. I've little interest, and less patience.”

“ _My_ prejudice?” Izuna spits, slamming a fist into the bars. “You hypocritical bastard, you're the one who hates the Uchiha blindly!”

Another spasm of stupidity, even though Izuna is generally a decent opponent. Tobirama arches a brow at him in disbelief. “I don’t hate the Uchiha,” he answers frostily. “I think you are _dangerous_ , because of the many clans we are at war with, yours is the strongest. The threat you pose is the greatest, and even if you are honorable enemies, I will not allow my clan to be wiped out.”

Never before has he seen Uchiha Izuna speechless. The other man gapes at him, eyes wide and mouth open, before he snaps it shut and spins on his heel, striding away.

Tobirama has yet to meet anyone as overdramatic as an Uchiha. Rolling his eyes, he turns back to his food and ignores the distant sound of a heavy door swinging shut.

 

 

Madara is in the middle of a high-level kata when his little brother wanders out of the compound and takes a seat on a nearby stump. One glance at his face is enough to have Madara groaning and dropping out of his stance, pressing a hand over his eyes in aggrieved exasperation.

“What was it?” he demands. “You did something I'm going to hate and want to yell at you for, so just get it over with and tell me now.”

“So theatrical, Brother,” Izuna says reprovingly. “What would the elders say?” And then, without giving him a chance to deliver an appropriately scathing response—having very much to do with kettles and pots—adds brightly, “I paid a visit to our newest guest of honor, that’s all.”

Madara contemplates strangling him. Or, since that seems fairly counterproductive, locking him up in a nice tower somewhere. “Izuna—” he starts threateningly.

Of course, his little brother just waves a dismissive hand at him. “Stop it, I wasn’t in any danger. Tobirama has no chakra and no weapons. The worst he could do was insult me, and he didn’t even try that much.”

However, because he knows his brother well, Madara sees the faint flicker that crosses Izuna’s face at the mention of the Senju’s name, and straightens. He gives Izuna a warning glance as he crosses his arms over his chest, and says succinctly, “Tell me.”

Thankfully for both their sakes, Izuna doesn’t even try to play stupid. He pulls a senbon out of his sleeve, keeping his eyes on the needle as he flips it through his fingers. “He called us honorable,” he confides, and the look on his face is…peculiar. “The Uchiha as a whole, I mean. Said that he doesn’t hate us, just thinks that we’re the most serious threat, and that he’s treating us accordingly.”

That is—that is actually very surprising, given that Madara had thought Tobirama loathed every last Uchiha and would have gladly wiped them out. He frowns in consternation, considering this revelation. If Izuna, who is very, very good at reading people, thinks that he was being sincere…

“He has to know I would have killed him if you were actually dead,” he says, mystified. “You're my _brother_. Honorable or not, I would have taken my revenge without even pausing to consider it.” Another thought occurs to him, and he moves over to sit on the ground beside Izuna’s stump, plucking the senbon from his grasp to fiddle with it himself. “He was…very certain that Hashirama wouldn’t retaliate, if I killed him,” he offers, because if anyone can make sense of Tobirama’s behavior it will be Izuna.

One slim black brow arches, and Izuna looks pensive. “Hm. He didn’t mention his brother at all to me. Maybe they had a fight?”

Madara snorts. “A fight is when I tell you I'm going to offer to meet the Senju in peace talks,” he says dismissively, and ignores the way Izuna’s eyes narrow. “No matter what was said between us, you wouldn’t believe me any less likely to do whatever necessary to avenge you. Regardless of what kind of idiot Hashirama is, Tobirama is his younger brother. His _last_ brother.”

“Not everyone is like you, or even me,” Izuna says lightly, though his expression is still serious. After a moment of silence, he pushes to his feet, touches Madara lightly on the shoulder, and murmurs, “Excuse me, I think I'm a bit hungry. And don’t think I'm about to forget that you plan on proposing _peace talks_ , Brother. We’re most certainly going to be discussing that later.”

Madara watches him head towards the compound and disappear through the gates, calling a cheerful greeting to the guards on top of the wall. Izuna is very skilled at being everyone’s friend. He knows instinctively what people need, how to understand them. Madara himself has no such gifts, and relies on his little brother for a large portion of dealing with the clan. His impression of Tobirama makes Madara…very curious. Curious and a little uneasy, because he remembers the crying boy he met on a riverbank so long ago. For Hashirama and himself, their first point of connection was the loss of their brothers, and Tobirama’s unwavering belief that Hashirama would let his death go sits wrong with Madara.

Tobirama has never been one to exaggerate, or prone to dramatics; he’s blunt and cold and calculating, always distant. And maybe Madara has never seen Tobirama and Hashirama act as close as he and Izuna do, but surely that closeness is there regardless.

Madara simply can't imagine losing a brother and not destroying the person responsible.

A week, Tobirama said. A week before Hashirama realizes that his little brother practically attempted suicide.

He wonders what will happen then.

Regardless of what he would have been willing to do in Izuna’s name, had his brother truly been killed, Madara knows the Uchiha are on the losing side of this war. The Senju have superior numbers, and a more fortified position. Hashirama is a force to be reckoned with in his own right, and for all that Madara can match him, he knows that the Senju has yet to fight him seriously. If Hashirama ever does, Madara doesn’t doubt he’ll lose; Hashirama’s Mokuton is practically unbeatable, and even the Mangekyo Sharingan is at a disadvantage against it.

Not to mention that Hashirama has always been better at inspiring loyalty and ferocity in his shinobi. Madara tries, but he’s a jaded man, his dreams worn away by reality and too many deaths. Somehow, Hashirama has managed to keep his brightness, his buoyant nature, even in the grip of war, and his clan’s willingness to fight for him reflects that. The Senju don’t waver, while the Uchiha grow tired of war.

Sooner or later, if Hashirama keeps insisting that all he wants is peace, Uchiha are going to start defecting.

Hell, if Madara didn’t have his duty to his clan, his responsibility to Izuna, he might even be the first.

But he does, and the elders, safe as they are from the battlefield, insist that everyone keep fighting. Madara is the leader in name, but the elders have power in their own right, and he doesn’t want to turn them against him unless he has no other choice. He can't force the rest of the clan to make such a decision, choosing between two powers. He’ll suggest peace, try to start talks with the Senju so that no one else has to suffer an early death, but it will take a miracle to make them agree to anything.

A sudden thought makes Madara blink, stunned.

A miracle like holding the Senju Clan Head’s little brother hostage.

Despite his threats to Tobirama, Madara doesn’t believe he could kill the younger man in cold blood. It was hard enough to leave him tormented with illusions of death, and even then, Madara couldn’t even bring himself to add Hashirama’s body to the genjutsu. For his sake or Tobirama’s he can't quite tell, but it just…wouldn’t come. The closest he could manage was the kunoichi Tobirama often fights back-to-back with, and even that had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Torture against an enemy holding vital information is a simple choice, and Madara would do something like that without hesitation. Torture against a prisoner, for no reason at all—

Well. They're shinobi, their morals easily dismissed if the price is good enough. But some things Madara likes to think he’s above, and that’s one of them.

But…

But holding one of Hashirama’s immediate family members will give the elders the illusion that the Uchiha have the upper hand. It might even _be_ an upper hand, for all that Madara knows. Perhaps Hashirama will, as Madara would, agree to anything in order to protect his brother.

He doesn’t want to take advantage of Hashirama; ever since they were children he’s known that if Hashirama believes in one thing absolutely, it’s that peace is possible. Even likely, with all parties working together. With the Uchiha and the Senju working together. And, as much as Madara might bluster, whatever his words to his father on the riverbank that day, he still believes in the possibility just as readily. A world where they could lay aside their weapons and work for betterment rather than destruction—that’s a world Madara wants to live in. It’s a world he wants for Izuna, for his children, for his clan.

Always, always, it’s been so far out of reach. Until now.

(And how laughably ironic is it, that Tobirama, whom Madara thought would be one of peace’s greatest opponents because of his hatred of the Uchiha, has actually given Madara the means to achieve it?)

It rubs him slightly wrong, but…he’ll wait. He’ll wait out the week, let Hashirama contact him about Tobirama. It is dubious at best that the Senju brothers have had a large enough falling out to truly put them at odds, but just in case they did Madara doesn’t want to wave a prisoner at Hashirama only to get laughed at in return. Better to hold off and get a better idea of how the pieces are falling.

If Tobirama ends up being useless, well. Nothing will have changed, and he’ll remain a prisoner of the Uchiha. If he _is_ useful, between that and saving Izuna…

Perhaps Madara can find it within himself to forgive eventually. Still, he has no doubt that he’ll always be wary of just how easily Tobirama all but shattered his entire world.

 

 

Tōka can't remember the last time she was this torn.

The letter sits on the table in front of her, just out of easy reach, but no less maddening for it. The neat creases have been worn into knife-sharp lines from the constant worrying of her fingers, from the countless times she’s traced them in the two and a half days Tobirama has been gone. The heavy seal still keeps it tightly closed, but Tōka knows a dozen tricks to open it and reseal it without a single sign. A baker’s dozen, given that she’s one of the few with access to Tobirama’s personal study, and retrieving his stamp would be child’s play.

It’s a gross invasion of privacy. Tobirama passed this to her in trust, in confidence, and to open it and read it when she knows she’s not the intended recipient is nothing less than a clear betrayal. She wouldn’t want Tobirama reading her final words; she has no right to read his, especially those addressed to his elder brother.

But—

But Tōka has known Tobirama for twenty-four years. She remembers peering over the edge of his crib when he was just a handful of weeks old, entranced by crimson eyes and a dandelion puff of silver hair. Other members of their clan looked at him sidelong for his coloring, even after his younger brothers were born, but Tōka’s always thought him startlingly lovely. She adored his mother with all the fervor in her six-year-old heart, and Tobirama takes very much after the late Lady Senju in all ways.

She knows him, likely better than he would ever want her to. And just before he left, he was acting…oddly. Even leaving aside the civilian clothes, the lack of hitai-ate, the expression of strange, steely determination that she’s never seen him wear outside of a battlefield, he’d been off. There's nothing concrete that she can point to, no proof beyond his dress, but Tōka is familiar with what Tobirama looks like in a hopeless situation, and that was very much what she saw that night.

Guilt, too, is an emotion she recognizes on Tobirama’s face, for all that she sees it rarely. And when he’d looked at her, when he’d met her eyes that final time—

It had taken an effort to simply ruffle his hair and walk away, instead of dragging him into the hug she’d wanted to give him. Tōka regrets, a little, that she didn’t do it anyways.

She’s a kunoichi from a clan at war. Regrets don’t sit easily with her.

Tōka has little doubt that opening Tobirama’s letter will shed light on his behavior, especially with the way Hashirama is currently sulking—longer than she’s ever seen him hold a sulk before, which means it’s because of something he considers serious. He hasn’t so much as mentioned Tobirama in her hearing, and given that she’s the only person besides him with whom Tobirama spends any significant amount of time, it worries her. Surely he would have noticed that Tobirama is gone. After all, Tobirama is the type to pretend that problems aren’t problems at all, and soldier on with a blank face. If they argued—and she knows them both well enough to think that they did—Tobirama would hardly hide himself away and keep out of sight.

There were no papers filed for a mission, when she went to check, and Tobirama’s desk was clear. Tōka can't even imagine the persnickety little brat failing to fill out the correct documents in triplicate, so that only worries her more.

With a soft sigh, she halfway rises from her chair, leaning forward to pick up the letter and then sinking down again. The paper is crisp against her fingers, but the edges are starting to wear from all the handling. The Uchiha have been quiet since their defeat and Tobirama’s wounding of Izuna, and none of the smaller clans are making trouble right now, so she’s had nothing to do but brood over this since her cousin left. And no matter how many times she turns the matter over in her mind, she can't make a choice.

Should she trust that Tobirama has everything well in hand, wherever he may be?

Or should she open the letter, betraying Tobirama’s trust but getting the answers that will put her mind at rest?

Groaning, Tōka drops the letter back onto the table and rakes her hands through her unbound hair, shoving the heavy fall of her bangs back behind her left ear. The rest of it curls around her shoulders and partway down her back, unmanageable unless it’s tied up, and Tōka has a momentary flash of the night after a battle she can't otherwise remember, sitting bloody and wearied around a campfire with Tobirama at her back. He’d brushed her hair out, patient with it the way she never quite manages to be, and had redone the intricate knot for her. It had been an unlooked-for moment of peace, of family, and Tōka had laughingly told him to grow his own hair out so she could return the favor. He’d scoffed at her, of course, but his eyes were warm and fond. With Tobirama, no matter his words, Tōka has never doubted that she’s loved. They're cousins, friends, bound together by shared suffering and survival and a sheer bloody-minded stubbornness that won't let either of them lay down and die.

He might hate her for this, but—

But Tobirama was troubled, he was hurting. He met Tōka’s eyes but didn’t hold them, and Tōka knows well enough when he’s lying, even if only by omission.

Mouth tightening into a firm slash, she reaches for the letter. She has no patience for finesse right now, so she draws a kunai and simply slits the seal, then unfolds the paper, taking care so as not to tear the well-worn creases.

A quick skim of the contents is enough to send her heart thundering into double-time, to lodge it right in her throat, and Tōka is on her feet before she can even register the movement. One hand clenches hard around the back of her chair, knuckles going white under the pressure, and she forces herself to take a breath. One and then another, forcing herself into a rhythm until it’s unconscious again, because _damn it_. She’s going to _murder_ the self-sacrificing little bastard if the Uchiha haven’t already.

She’ll find out whether they have. She’ll find out, even if she has to storm the Uchiha compound by herself and dismantle it brick by brick. Even if all she manages is to recover Tobirama’s body, at least she can give him that. She _owes_ him that—all of the Senju do, for walking to his death just to ease Madara's rage.

And on that note, there's someone else she needs to eviscerate while she’s at it. Conveniently, he’s far closer at hand than the Uchiha, and she will take just as much pleasure chopping him into tiny bits as she doubtless will Uchiha Madara.

(Tōka is quite adept at reading between the lines. _I have put a price on your dream_ , Tobirama wrote, but he wouldn’t have come to that conclusion—wouldn’t have been driven to _this_ —on his own. And ever since they were children there's only ever been one person capable of pushing Tobirama to such heights of idiocy.)

Darkly painted lips curving down into a ferocious scowl, Tōka tucks the letter into her sash. Then she turns, scoops up her long, wickedly sharp naginata from where it’s leaning against the doorframe, and stalks out of her house with it firmly in hand.

If Tobirama _is_ still living—and as much as she hopes he is, she doesn’t want to contemplate for what reason Madara would have kept him alive—he likely won't appreciate her murdering his brother, no matter how vastly moronic Hashirama can be. Tōka doesn’t give a damn. If he wanted to protect the idiot, he should have stayed in the compound.

Besides, Tōka’s only going to maim him a little bit.

She’s not in armor, dressed more for a casual afternoon lounging around her house, and only applied the bare minimum of her makeup, out of habit more than anything. Still, people see her coming and scatter with alacrity, eyes wide and wary. Normally, Tōka would feel pleased—she’s the strongest of the Senju kunoichi, battle-tested and blooded and used to fighting alongside Tobirama without allowing herself to falter, but she’s had to fight every step of the way to get here. Some people still cling to the old mindset, where women are good for birthing the next generation and maintaining a household and little else, and Tōka relishes reminding them that as far as sheer physical strength is ranked, she’s only just below Tobirama in the clan.

Right now, though? All she wants is to get her hands around Hashirama’s stupid scrawny neck and shake until he’s either dead or she’s rattled some sense loose in his brain. Maybe she can't match him on an even field, but she’s a kunoichi; ‘underhanded’ might as well be her middle name, and if Hashirama thinks he can anywhere _near_ rival the levels of pissed she’s at right now, he’s sorely mistaken.

At this time of day, Hashirama should by all rights be having lunch with his wife, so Tōka aims her strides towards the Clan Head’s house. There's a guard at the gate, as always—Takuma with his short navy hair and scarred face—and he takes one look at Tōka and grimaces.

“Tōka, your weapon—” he tries, but Tōka snarls, whirling her naginata up in a practiced flip and leveling the long blade at his throat.

“Yes?” she growls. “What about it?”

Going about three shades paler, Takuma raises his hands and starts inching back. “It’s, er, very shiny? Did you use a new kind of polish?”

Satisfied that he won't make any further moves to block her, Tōka sweeps the blade away. “I've found that bathing it in the blood of fools does wonders,” she says menacingly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to give it another dip.”

No fool even with his Clan Head’s life under threat, Takuma lets her go.

Knowing that Mito favors the back garden in sunny weather, Tōka doesn’t bother with doors or knocking. She simply jumps up onto the roof, crosses it in a few long bounds, and then takes a flying leap. Pretty china and perfectly prepared food goes flying with a crash as she lands in the middle of the small table, but she doesn’t pause, driving forward with a cry of pure rage and her weapon brought to bear.

With a high-pitched scream, Hashirama leaps back, gets tangled in his robes, and summersaults ass over teakettle as he tries to get away.

On the other side of the table, Mito calmly and deftly plucks her teacup out of harm’s way and sits back in her chair, taking a measured sip as she arches one inquisitive red brow at the furious kunoichi trying to murder her husband.

“Tōka,” she says serenely. “It’s been a while. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Tōka growls, vaulting down from the tabletop and stalking after Hashirama as he scrambles to his feet. “Sorry, Mito, I was in a hurry,” she answers, then sweeps her naginata around for another thrust that Hashirama only just manages to dodge. “Stand still and let me gut you, damn it!”

“No!” Hashirama retorts, jerking back and raising a hand sharply. A cocoon of wood whirls up to surround him, and Tōka screams with thwarted rage, throwing herself forward. The blade of her weapon sinks into the wood with a loud _thunk_ , and Tōka clings to the shaft, trying not to let herself shake. Her cheeks are wet, her eyes are stinging, and there's a great weight in her chest, impossible to breathe around.

As much as she wishes otherwise, she knows it’s not all anger.

“For _you_!” she cries, and doesn’t mean for it to sound so broken, but it does. Her fingers slip on the naginata’s shaft, and she throws herself forward, slamming an impotent fist against the wood instead. “He got himself killed because of _you_ , and you're sitting here drinking _tea_ , _you bastard_!”

The wood slides away like water, and Tōka stumbles forward, colliding with Hashirama’s chest. She slams her fist against that, too, and the idiot doesn’t even have the decency to flinch despite the power she puts behind the blow. Instead, gentle hands come up to cup her elbows, and Hashirama looks down with kind sympathy on his face.

“Who, Tōka?” he asks gently. “Who are you talking about?”

Her jaw clenches. From this distance it’s child’s play to shove Hashirama backwards, sweep his feet out from under him, and twist them both so she can land on his back as he hits the ground with a yelp. Tōka snarls, pinning his hands with her knees to prevent him from forming signs and yanking another kunai from her belt. It cuts the skin of his throat when she presses it against the side of his neck, but she can't bring herself to care.

“Your _brother_!” she cries, furious enough to block out the grief those words invoke. “Tobirama! He went to _die_ because he thought that was _what you wanted_!”

The ringing silence that follows her words is no victory, and with a snarled curse Tōka leaps to her feet and hurls the kunai at the far wall.

“I'm wasting my time,” she says grimly, pulling the letter out of her sash and dropping it to the ground in front of him. “If you’ve any love left for your brother, read that. I'm going to retrieve his body, even if I have to beg it from those murdering bastards on my knees.”

Without looking behind her, she snatches up her naginata, slings it over her back, and clears the garden wall in a chakra-assisted bound. Then she’s in the streets and running flat-out, heading for the far wall.

Let Hashirama catch up, if he wants to stop her. Nothing else will.


	4. but the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people have expressed concern regarding my number of WIPs since I just started a new one, but I want to say that I do truly have it in hand. I'm estimating another 5-6 chapters here, and since I actually have a basic outline they should come pretty quickly.

Hashirama is…shaken.

Tōka is gone, the violent roil of her chakra long since vanished, but he still can't bring himself to move. The letter rests against his fingertips, open and spilling damning words, even though he knows his little brother meant them with only the very best of intentions. He can feel it, sense it in every stilted phrase and awkward bit of phrasing, the excess length when he knows Tobirama would rather write a single word where someone else would leave a paragraph.

But even the kindest words can accuse, and these do.

Oh, these do.

Hashirama sets the letter on his lap, unable to look at it. He lifts a hand and lets it hang for a moment, uncertain, before raking it through his hair. Of their own volition, his fingers clench, but the ache in his scalp doesn’t alleviate the one building in his chest, gathering in his throat.

_My only regret is that I will not see your dream come to be._

Already Hashirama knows that he is a man who sees too little. His focus is narrow, no matter how far ahead it stretches, but never before has he realized it as he does now. For so long his dream has been everything, a siren-song to consume every waking hour and every last bit of his drive, and he’d thought it fine, acceptable. After all, he works for the good of the clan, with the good of every other clan close second. He leads the Senju towards peace, and even if he wishes their greatest foes to walk that path beside them, surely it’s the goal that matters in the end.

The war has gone on for too many years. They fight without reason now, and Hashirama wants nothing more than to end that.

But—

When was the last time he spoke to Tobirama, truly? What does he know of his little brother’s own dreams, his hopes and fears? What does Tobirama love, besides his foolish older brother who can never do anything right?

Tobirama’s love is clear. So obvious, so sure, even though Hashirama has never taken the time to notice. He _knew_ , of course, that Tobirama cared for him—they're brothers, after all, blood and kin and the last of their immediate family, and for years they’ve relied on each other for practically everything. But his notice was a distracted thing, a passing thought given, and—

Always, always Tobirama has been his right hand, his logic, the cool head to draw him back when emotion can't be trusted. And…perhaps Hashirama has forgotten, over time, that there is more to his little brother than a cold expression, a sword that strikes too quickly. Has he ever asked, really, what Tobirama wishes for, for the future? Does he know what his brother dreams of, or desires? Why is it that only now Hashirama remembers a small, skinny boy calling every adult they knew an idiot for not being able to make and follow a treaty?

When was the last time he took an hour and sought Tobirama out, rather than waiting for Tobirama to find him? When was the last time he listened, no matter how it bored him, when Tobirama explained a brilliant new jutsu of his own creation?

And what if, he thinks, with a little shiver of horror he can't quite fight back. What if Tōka’s fears are true, and he can never have that chance again?

But they can't be. There's no chance, because Hashirama knows Madara, and the Uchiha wants peace as much as he does.

But—what if he’s _wrong_?

What if—

He presses a splayed hand across his face, and his breath shudders out of him, inches away from a true sob. “I—didn’t mean it,” he whispers, even though the man those words are meant for is miles distant. Miles distant and—but no. He can't be. He’s _not_. Madara wouldn’t do such a thing. They're _friends_ , and even if Izuna is dead, surely—

Hashirama curls in on himself, trying not to shake. _Surely_ , he thinks, giddy with hysteria and fear. “I didn’t,” he tells Tobirama, days too late. “I didn’t mean _you_. I didn’t mean it like _that_. Please, I just—I was just…”

Angry. Directionless, desperate, watching the ruins of that final bit of childhood wonder crumble around him, and it all boiled out like bile. Tobirama was convenient, because he was there, because it was his blow that left Izuna mortally wounded. Because there was still, somewhere deep down inside of Hashirama, a small bit of resentment at the fact that it had been Tobirama to follow him to the river, when they were children. It had been Tobirama who led their father there, who shattered his friendship with Madara for the first time.

It’s a pointless sentiment, and Hashirama knows it. Tobirama couldn’t have disobeyed their father when he gave the order, so he hardly had a choice. And if Tobirama hadn’t, it’s possible that Tajima Uchiha would have killed him there on the riverbank, alone and outmatched, because Izuna did the same as Tobirama.

But such things linger, far past when they should, and Hashirama knows that this is the same. He’s never put quite as much faith in his little brother since. His trust, certainly, but…always he’s treated Tobirama with an edge of exasperation, never expecting certain things from him. Things like mercy, or a desire for peace, or anything except their father’s cool superiority. And maybe Tobirama has never proved those expectations wrong, but—did Hashirama ever give him the chance to?

A hand on his shoulder, gentle and warm, and Hashirama slowly raises his head. Mito is kneeling at his side, pale blue robes pooling like water around her, and her expression is soft. She doesn’t try to assuage his guilt, doesn’t say it’s not his fault—says nothing, in fact. Instead, she leans forward to kiss his brow, then cups a hand around the back of his head and guides his head down to her shoulder. With a muffled sound of anguish, Hashirama leans into her thin form, wrapping his arms around her torso and burying his face in smooth silk. With a quiet murmur, more meaningless noise than words, Mito strokes his hair, letting him lean on her.

“What do I do?” he whispers at length, lost and adrift. “What do I do?”

Mito takes a breath, slow and calm, and then repeats it. Again and again until Hashirama is breathing with her unconsciously, dropping back from the edges of panic to more even ground. She pats his back briskly and says, in a no-nonsense voice, “Do? Hashirama, now you make it _right_.”

Had he the breath to laugh, he would. His beautiful, practical wife, so blunt that she keeps herself from speaking in public more often than not, and gives most the impression that she is shy and docile when nothing could be further from the truth. He would be lost without her, he thinks, and squeezes her gently to show his gratitude. She pats his head like he’s a child, then leans back, and Hashirama lets her go. Mito smiles at him, just briefly, and then says, “I’ll see to your work. Focus on this.”

Hashirama watches as she rises, elegant and graceful, and sweeps back towards the house with perfect poise, not deigning to notice the shattered remnants of their lunch as she steps daintily over them. Then he’s alone with his thoughts again, and it is…an unhappy state to find himself in.

Restless, he reaches for the letter again, eyes skimming the neat brushstrokes but hardly registering the words. They're already burned into his memory regardless, as impossible to forget as the guilt that tears at his stomach with razor-edged claws.

 _My fault_ , he thinks, and it’s so easy now to think back to Tobirama’s face, that evening in his office. So easy to remember bitter words, exaggerated accusations flung against his little brother so readily. Tobirama had just—taken it. Accepted it, as though he hadn’t expected differently, and Hashirama curses softly, rubbing at his brow.

His little brother walked to his death thinking Hashirama didn’t care for him. He went to _die_ , thinking that Hashirama valued peace over his life.

But…

The thought is like lead in his gut, sinking and heavy, and Hashirama swallows, feeling sick.

But was he wrong?

Hashirama can't lead his clan into a war against the Uchiha. Not any more than he already does, these skirmishes that wound both sides and push at their borders and accomplish little else. But Tobirama’s death will require _true_ war, the kind their fathers waged. It will necessitate killing the Uchiha indiscriminately, taking revenge for the Clan Head’s brother, sacrificing Senju for something that can never be undone.

There's no way Hashirama could ever bring himself to order such a thing.

Even for Tobirama’s life, even to kill his murderer, Hashirama won't become the kind of man who would start a war.

Does it matter, that the man he would be fighting against is Madara? Hashirama wants to think it doesn’t, but uncertainty is like poison in his mind. Madara is…Madara is an ideal, more than anything. He’s the enemy who shouldn’t be an enemy at all, the enemy who was more like Hashirama than any of Hashirama’s own family. He is a friend no matter how many times they meet in battle, a kindred spirit in a bloody world, a dreamer with visions of peace to match Hashirama’s own.

Never, ever in Hashirama’s life has he felt closer to another soul than he has to Uchiha Madara.

The knowledge that Tobirama is likely gone from this world, and that his life was stolen from him by Madara's hand, sits heavy and cold in Hashirama’s heart, but he already knows he won't act on it. Even if it were himself alone, and he didn’t carry the fate of the Senju, Hashirama doesn’t think he could do it. Not solely because of Madara, or Hashirama’s differences from his brother, but because Hashirama is a man who values peace above all other things. More than blood, more than family, more than any one life, no matter how dear that life is to him.

He fights, when he must, because more will die if he doesn’t. But to lead his clan into war, to kill because of one death? That’s everything he’s always been against, and just because it is his brother dead doesn’t mean his beliefs have changed. Perhaps that makes him cruel, or blind. That he is a poor brother is without doubt, unquestionable, but Hashirama can't change the very core of who he is. Not even for Tobirama.  

He wants to weep at the thought of Tobirama, always so cool and distant, walking a step at a time towards a dark fate. Wants to weep for the loss of those quicksilver smiles, so rarely earned but all the more precious for it. How long has it been, since Tobirama gave him one? All he can recall are the ones with which Tobirama favored Tōka. She’s always made him smile more easily than most, because their senses of humor are alike, but…

Sometimes, sometimes Hashirama will do something, or say something, and Tobirama will look at him and let his eyes crinkle, let his mouth twitch up. It’s a private expression of amusement, shared in confidence, and those—those Hashirama has always treasured just as much as the smiles.

Perhaps he isn’t a good brother, but that doesn’t mean he loves Tobirama any less. Perhaps he hasn’t paid attention where he should, but that doesn’t mean he’s overlooked him entirely. They're just…different people.

Hashirama has never asked Tobirama what his dream is. He always simply assumed that it was the same as his, that Tobirama also dreamed of a place of peace and prosperity. And…maybe he does, but Hashirama never _asked_.

It feels like a terrible, aching oversight now, that he didn’t.

Will he ever get the chance again?

He will. Hashirama has to believe that. He has to believe that even in the depths of his fury, Madara wouldn’t kill Tobirama, because they're friends. Because they both want peace, and this isn’t the way to achieve it. Because Hashirama can't imagine, past the sick, nauseous feeling clawing up his throat, having to look at his best friend every day for the rest of his life and imagine Tobirama’s blood painting his hands.

 _Now you make it_ right, Mito said, and she’s correct, as she ever is. Hashirama takes a breath and pushes to his feet, smoothing his hands over the fabric of his loose pants and then straightening firmly. One of the clan has falcon summons, often used for sending letters, and Hashirama aims his steps towards the woman’s quarters, knowing she’ll send a message for him without asking questions.

He needs to speak to Madara. Before anything, he needs to know—

He needs his brother. And if he can't have Tobirama beside him, he needs to understand _why_.

 

 

 Izuna is under the very strictest orders to take it easy and not strain himself in the slightest. Madara relented on the idea of having guards follow him around, mostly because he is well aware of what Izuna would do to him if he had continued insisting, but he hasn’t yielded where his orders regarding physical exertion are concerned.

As far as _Izuna_ is concerned, Madara is a mother hen, and should be cooked into soup forthwith.

Ignoring the rash of worried glances he’s accruing, Izuna continues his determined stride towards the guard post at the front gate, where a pair of familiar faces are stationed. He’s sat inside like a good boy, read his scrolls until he thought he’d go mad with them, and now he’s sufficiently fed up with inaction to the point where he doesn’t give a damn about his brother’s opinion anymore.

Besides, Madara and Izuna will both leave the rest of the clan entirely out of any arguments between them. That one incident with Kasumi getting caught in the crossfire when they were children taught them that much, and the lesson has stuck.

(Kasumi is terrifying. If she weren’t already blissfully married to a very, very lucky civilian, Izuna would have snatched her up long ago.

Or, well, he’d have tried. Going by past attempts, she’d have laughed at him and then kicked him in the face. Truly a magnificent woman.)

And, indeed, it’s Kasumi at the gate, with Hayato beside her. Izuna gives the latter a cheerful smile, and the former a polite nod. “Friends,” he says cheerfully.

Kasumi eyes him skeptically, clearly aware of Madara's orders, but doesn’t try to make him follow them. “Izuna,” she returns, even as her Sharingan eyes drift back towards the road.

Such attention isn’t normal, no matter how good a guard she is. Izuna frowns, hand automatically falling to his weapons pouch. “Is something wrong?”

The two exchange glances for a moment before Hayato says quietly, “Kiyoshi’s patrol was due back an hour ago.”

That’s…worrying. Kiyoshi is one of the most experienced kunoichi, and even if she were delayed, she would have sent a messenger. Izuna thinks of the Senju languishing in their cells and feels his mouth pull tight. Spinning on his heel, he glances around the courtyard for the shinobi he just passed, then calls, “Hikaku! Is your squad nearby?”

The man glances up, short ponytail swaying, and if he’s confused by the question it doesn’t show in the promptness of his answer as he approaches. “They’ll be here any minute—we were planning to train together. Is there a mission?”

Madara will skin him. That’s all right, because Izuna is perfectly well, absolutely fine, and entirely capable as long as he’s not facing ridiculously crafty Senju with the ability to teleport. Decided, he says, “There is now. We have a patrol to locate. Kasumi, do you know their route?”

Despite his recent injury, Izuna is still the Clan Head’s brother, and Kasumi doesn’t bother arguing. “The north road, past the shrine, and then looping back from the west.”

Away from the Senju, then. Interesting. Maybe it’s just a coincidence after all.

Somehow, Izuna doesn’t think it is.

Seeing Hikaku gathering his three squad members, Izuna takes a breath. “Let my brother know what’s happening,” he orders. “And double the patrols heading out. If this is an attack, I don’t want us caught unawares.”

Kasumi doesn’t say _your brother is going to yell at you again_ , but the thought is clear on her face as she nods and turns, hurrying towards the main building. Izuna doesn’t pause to watch her go, but waves Hikaku and the others out, nods to Hayato, and follows them into the forest.

Practiced and efficient, the squad spreads out to cover ground, shinobi slipping soundlessly into the bushes and fading among the trees. Izuna keeps to the road, making himself a target—as one of the only Uchiha with the Mangekyo, it’s his duty, whether Madara chooses to see it that way or not. He’s not alone, either; Hikaku flanks him, wary eyes scanning their surroundings as they head towards the north.

“It could be a trap,” the younger man murmurs after they’ve made it a good distance unhindered, too low for anyone but Izuna to hear.

Izuna acknowledges this with a tip of his head. “We can't afford any more losses,” he returns at the same pitch. “If there's a way to save them, we have to try.”

With a faint grimace, Hikaku concedes the point. Still, he mutters, “If it’s those crazy Inuzuka again, _you_ get to deal with them. I’ll meet you back at the compound.”

It takes effort not to laugh. “What? Shin just wanted to be your _friend_.”

“He was three seconds from humping my leg,” Hikaku retorts. “But keep snickering. Next time I run into him I’ll let him know you're interested.”

Some people have no sense of humor. Izuna rolls his eyes and pointedly doesn’t answer, shifting his attention to the road instead. He can't see anything, and the Sharingan can't make out any hints of movement, even though this is definitely the best spot for an ambush. The trees lean close together here, and the path curves sharply away, hiding what's ahead. Carefully, he draws a kunai, readying a trickle of chakra so he can call up a Katon jutsu the moment there looks to be a need.

“Suspicious,” Hikaku murmurs, slowing his steps as they approach the bend. Izuna nods silently, then braces himself, signals Hikaku to match him, and leaps forward at a flat run. They round the curve together, anticipating practically anything, and find…

Nothing. The road is empty, not a sign of life anywhere along it until it disappears in the distance.

Disgusted, Izuna rocks back on his heels. “Not even a damn bird,” he mutters, though he doesn’t quite feel steady enough to put his kunai away yet. Turning, he glances into the trees, looking for one of the other shinobi to ask if they’ve seen something.

And then from above him, someone says flatly, “Tweet.”

Izuna spins, half a second too slow. Even as he brings his weapon up, a naked foot comes flying at his nose. He ducks, but the move is a feint, and a bare instant later the steel-capped shaft of a polearm catches him in the gut and knocks every bit of air out of his lungs. As he wheezes, trying to get both his breath and his balance back, the attacker slides past him like a flicker of wind. He gets a blurred impression of long dark hair before Hikaku yelps and lands hard on his back, feet knocked out from underneath him by a sweeping kick.

There's a cry, a shout, and two more Uchiha lunge out of the trees, but the attacker doesn’t hesitate. The heavy shaft smacks Izuna over the head just as he starts to turn, sending him reeling again with stars spinning behind his eyes, and an instant later the stranger is between the approaching pair. A foot lashes out, taking down the one on the left, and the one on the right slashes out with a tantō, but the attacker bocks it with the blade of their weapon. A snarled curse, a twist, a knife-hand blow to the back of the Uchiha’s neck, and the man goes down in a heap.

“Katon—” Izuna starts, hands flickering up in automatic seals, but loses his voice to a breathless grunt as a foot slams into his stomach. He overbalances, tumbling onto his back in the dirt, and the attacker follows him down, landing right on him with their knees pinning his forearms and their naginata locked crosswise beneath his chin, braced to break his neck at the slightest provocation.

“You!” the attacker snarls, and from this close, without the blur of constant movement, Izuna can finally see that it’s a woman—tall, fighting-fit, with a waterfall of deep brown hair tumbling over her face and shoulders and nearly hiding furious amber eyes. A crimson-painted mouth is twisted into a ferocious snarl, but the face Izuna can make out is angular and lovely. He stares, half-stunned, but before he can move or think, before he can even activate his Sharingan and catch her in a genjutsu, she spits a curse and dives to the side. A kunai thuds into the earth right next to Izuna as the kunoichi rolls, comes up in a crouch, and leaps. One impressive bound carries her up into the branches above them, and an instant later she’s gone without a trace.

Izuna blinks blankly at the spot where she vanished for a long moment, then lets his head thump back into the dirt. “Wow,” he says dazedly.

Hikaku sighs, longsuffering, as he retrieves his kunai and slips it away. “Somehow,” he answers dryly, “I don’t think that’s quite what you're supposed to say in this situation.”

“Did you _see_ her?” Izuna insists, levering himself up on his elbows. One flick of his hand encompasses their section of road, now decorated with two unconscious Uchiha, another just emerging from the trees, Hikaku with the beginnings of a magnificent black eye, and Izuna himself. “Did you see _that_?”

“You mean, did I just see one kunoichi knock you on your ass and then take out an entire patrol in under thirty seconds? Because it might surprise you, but I was here for that too.”

Giving up on reasoning with such blind, apathetic, unromantic people, Izuna flops back down with a dreamy sigh. “Do you think we’ll see her again?” he asks hopefully.

Hikaku leans over him, expression extremely unimpressed. “Going by the bloodthirsty look on her face, I'm sure she’d be more than willing to kick your ass again whenever the opportunity presents itself,” he says judgmentally. “Okay, Izuna. Fingers. How many do you see?”

Annoyed, Izuna bats the younger man’s hand away from his face. “She’s _perfect_ ,” he insists.

“She’s the _enemy_!”

“True love acknowledges no mortal boundaries,” Izuna informs him piously.

With a low groan, Hikaku slaps a hand over his eyes. “You're not listening to me. Fantastic. Come on, lover boy, she probably got Kiyoshi and her group too. We should go make sure they're all still breathing.”

Reluctantly, Izuna allows Hikaku to drag him to his feet. “Who do you think she is?” he wonders. “A Nara? An Inuzuka?” And it’s not _all_ attraction talking, not when she clearly is an enemy, but Hikaku is fun to get a rise out of and doesn’t need to know that.

“I've yet to see a Nara move that fast,” Hikaku says with a sigh, clearly deciding to humor him. Izuna will forgive him, since he didn’t get a glimpse of the kunoichi’s pale, lovely face, or have her long, lean legs—mostly bare, given the way her already short dress was riding up—holding him down. “And she didn’t smell like dog, so Inuzuka’s probably out too.”

There was…something familiar about her, though Izuna can't quite put his finger on it. He turns it over in his mind, alongside the deadly grace of each step she took, the perfectly controlled sweep of her naginata, and the utter silence of her movements as she disappeared.

Gorgeous. Even if it’s just to get dumped in the dirt, Izuna really wants to meet her again.

 

 

The intruder is stealthy, but Madara is better. He stalks her steps from practically the moment she lands in the compound, slipping over a quiet portion of the eastern wall and then fading into the evening shadows. Madara follows, minding each step, because he’d expected something like this the moment the first ambushed patrol returned. Too many ambushes, with no casualties to speak of, and it had thrown the clan into a frenzy. There are seven squads combing the forest right now, as well as Izuna and his group, and a rash of lightning-quick attacks have been aimed at the most remote.

It’s a good tactic for drawing the enemy out, Madara allows. Alone and moving fast, one kunoichi can cover more ground than a wary squad, and she used that to hit separate areas before looping back, leaving chaos behind her as she approached the actual objective of her mission. Were Madara in a similar position, he’d likely do the same.

The fact that there have been no deaths is the only reason Madara doesn’t kill her on the spot, but he’s also faintly curious, slightly suspicious. It’s convenient timing, after all; Tobirama assured him it would be a week before Hashirama knew of his absence, and to be attacked now? Such an underhanded move hardly seems like something Hashirama would allow, but Madara has seen Tobirama fight, has seen the way he allows his enemy the illusion of victory before he comes up from below and finishes them, and…it’s possible.

Not likely, Madara thinks, and is surprised by that. But he remembers the fear in Tobirama’s eyes, during their encounter. Remembers the unconscious hope when he realized that Izuna was still alive. Tobirama is more assassin than actor, and Madara doubts he could fake such emotion so readily.

Still, his eyes narrow when the kunoichi—who looks more like a madwoman than a trained shinobi, with her tangled hair and bare feet and ripped, mud-splattered wrap-dress—whirls out of the darkness to knock out the guard in front of the prison. She catches the Uchiha as he falls, settling him carefully off to the side, and then ducks through the doorway and hurries down the corridor between the cells. Madara follows as soon as he’s certain the guard is still breathing, and soundlessly tails her towards the prison’s only occupant. The shadows are deep enough to hide him, so he slips forward until he has a decent view and then stops, watching closely.

The woman catches sight of the Senju in the cell and abandons all stealth, crying, “Tobirama!” as she throws herself forward, desperately reaching through the bars.

Tobirama jerks as if stung, leaping to his feet with an expression of unadulterated shock on his face. He freezes, red eyes going wide, and then crosses to the door in two quick strides and grabs the kunoichi’s hand. “Tōka,” he says, and it’s relief and worry all wrapped up together. “Tōka, what are you _doing_ here?”

Tōka—Madara knows the name, and he lifts one brow in disbelief as he connects it with the uptight, impossibly haughty kunoichi in blue-grey armor he’s seen on the battlefield. The very one he used to torment Tobirama, in fact. There's little of that precisely put-together woman in this ragged kunoichi, though, despite the lovingly maintained naginata slung across her back.

Apparently, Tobirama is thinking along the same lines, because his next question is, “Are you _barefoot_?”

Tōka makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl, and uses her grip on Tobirama’s hand to yank him right up against the bars. “You _bastard_ , little cousin,” she rasps, twisting her arms through to hug him as best she can. “ _Why_? Why would you do something like this?”

The man goes tense in her grip and looks away, shaggy hair falling to hide his features. “You read my letter,” he says, and it’s an accusation all twisted up with bewilderment.

By the expression on her face, Tōka is quickly losing her patience. “Yes!” she cries, curling a hand around Tobirama’s cheek and forcing him to face her. “I'm able to tell when someone’s lying to me, Tobirama, and you were. There was no mission. Just—just _this_! And Hashirama was too busy brooding to look for you, but if you were doing something stupid I knew I had to stop you! And you _were_! How could you think this is what Hashirama wanted?”

Madara's breath catches in his throat, and he feels something tense and sick twist in his stomach. What?

“It…wasn’t,” Tobirama denies, but there's little conviction in his voice. “But he values peace, and I stole his chance at it. What else could I do?” He reaches up, curling his fingers around Tōka’s wrist in a grip that is clearly as much for his comfort as it is hers. “Tōka, he lives for his dream, for the chance that Madara will walk the path to peace beside him. If I stole that, I couldn’t live with myself. What kind of brother would I be?”

The missing pieces are falling together, and Madara loathes the picture that they make. He and Izuna argue, frequently and heatedly, but as he told his brother earlier, they never doubt the other’s love, no matter what is said. And for Tobirama to think, even for a moment, that Hashirama’s dream of peace is more valuable than his own life, that a cessation of fighting would matter more to Hashirama than having his brother alive and well beside him—

Well. It’s…terribly, terribly sad, for one thing.

Clearly, Tōka agrees. “The _living_ kind!” she hisses, but then her expression crumples, twisting into grief. She leans forward again, arms reaching, and Tobirama’s eyes soften. He reaches back, embracing her as best he can with the bars in the way, and murmurs an apology against her hair.

“Go,” he says at length, though his eyes are sad. “I'm alive, and they won't kill me. But you're in danger here, and I won't have that on my head.”

Tōka’s lips twist into a sharp scowl. “Not without you,” she counters acidly, ghosting a finger over the dark bruise on his cheek. “Even if I have to knock you unconscious and _drag_ you out of here, Tobirama, don’t think I won't. I came here ready to carry your corpse home and leave this place in ruins. If you think I won't go through with that—”

Madara snorts softly, stepping forward into the light. “Please don’t,” he says, and takes pleasure in the way both Senju twitch. The tension that bleeds into Tobirama, the apprehension that twists his face—by all rights, given who and what he is, it should bring Madara joy. It doesn’t, and the realization makes him sigh a little, running his eyes over the pair. “I hope you know you're ruining all of my plans,” he complains, crossing his arms over his chest.

(How his father would despair, to see him now, he thinks, and feels only smug satisfaction.)

Tōka bristles like a cat, turning to put herself between Madara and her cousin. “Splendid,” she retorts. “And what plans would those be? Torture? Murder?”

“Peace,” Madara snaps, glaring right back at her. “Your cousin handed me the greatest bargaining chip I could ever have hoped for, and I mean to make use of it! If the Uchiha believe they have leverage, they’ll finally be willing to enter negotiations. I'm not about to let the opportunity go to waste.”

Wariness shifts to calculation on Tobirama’s face as he assesses the angles. Then, slowly, he inclines his head. “It will work, at least from our end,” he agrees. “I know little of your internal politics, but the Senju will agree.”

The certainty in his voice is good to hear, and Madara nods in silent thanks. He’d been aware that Hashirama would take the chance, but it’s a relief to know that the rest of the Senju will as well.

“Unbelievable,” Tōka mutters, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing between the two men. Her sharp eyes narrow before she huffs and drops the posture in favor of offering Madara her wrists with a chilly smile. “Well, two hostages are better than one, right?” she says with poorly contained malice. “Lock me up, Uchiha. You should be aware that I'm not letting Tobirama out of my sight ever again.”

Senju are genetically predisposed to melodrama, Madara thinks, rolling his eyes. He pulls a key from the chain around his neck and waves the kunoichi to the side as he unlocks Tobirama’s door. “You’ll cooperate?” he asks, meeting crimson eyes, and sees nothing but wary acceptance there as Tobirama holds his gaze.

“For my brother’s peace,” Tobirama agrees, stepping out of the cell.

“Everyone’s peace,” Madara corrects, but Tobirama just shakes his head.

“I have never known peace,” he says flatly. “So I can hardly know to want it. Until I do, it is my brother’s dream, not mine.”

Madara thinks of the quiet resignation when Tobirama was on his knees before his death, the paleness of his face when he practically exhausted himself healing Izuna. Someone with that strength of conviction…

 _Perhaps your brother can convince you_ , he thinks, then remembers Hashirama’s part in this strange mess and grimaces. He doesn’t know the exact circumstances, but regardless, he doesn’t believe that this is a gap that can be mended so easily.


	5. does not change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s fascinating to see all the responses to the Hashirama bit, and the situation in general—it’s pretty evenly divided between people on the “a war for revenge is pointless and stupid” side and people on the “yeah, but it’s his _brother_ ” side. Very interesting, and it makes me happy that no one really sees Hashirama as the villain here, even if he does need a kick in the head—that was never my intention, and I'm glad it comes through.

 “But—”

“No.”

“We could—”

“ _Hell_ no.”

“Fine! _I_ could—”

“Are you _trying_ to get your brother to kill me?”

Izuna is twenty-four years old, a terror on the battlefield, wielder of the Mangekyo Sharingan and scourge of the Uchiha Clan’s enemies, so he doesn’t pout. But he does allow himself to frown very meaningfully at Hikaku as they make their weary way back into the compound. “You have no soul, you unromantic monster,” he complains.

Hikaku, six years younger but always devastatingly logical, simply rolls his eyes and waves to the guards as they pass. “Whatever,” he sighs. “You want romance? Fine. How’s this? If it’s meant to be, I'm sure she’ll miraculously appear before you without you having to go haring off into the _woods that are probably full of enemies_ , alone, at night. There. You're welcome.”

As he told Tobirama, Izuna believes in fate, and balance, and destiny. And that moment when his eyes met the kunoichi’s, and every thought failed to matter in the face of a fierce amber gaze and a wild spirit? That was _clearly_ fate. And of course, given that Izuna is a proactive, motivated individual, he had absolutely no compunctions about just…helping fate along a little more. Helping it move _faster_. Besides, given the way she moved, only someone with very good reflexes and an even better grasp of the Sharingan is going to be able to catch her.

She caught Izuna off guard once. It’s not going to happen again.

Before he can respond to Hikaku’s misguided attempt to help, though—which is what Izuna will magnanimously choose to believe that was, rather than base sarcasm—one of the clan’s retainers stops them, bowing politely to Izuna and murmuring, “Your brother wishes to see you in the diplomat’s quarters as soon as possible, sir.”

Izuna frowns a little, even as he changes directions. “Diplomat’s quarters” is a polite way of saying “luxurious cell”—it’s a small house, heavily guarded and set apart from the rest of the clan, with seals to prevent anyone within from using chakra. Actual guests take guest quarters; those who can't be trusted go there. The only person that Izuna knows who would be a suitable occupant is Tobirama, and for Madara to be moving him there—especially with the attacks along the road—means something must have happened to prove the Senju’s sincerity.

Well. Something more than letting them lock him in a cell to begin with. Izuna grimaces faintly, pressing a hand over his side. He has firsthand experience with just how cunning Tobirama can be when he puts his mind to it; honestly, he doesn’t doubt in the slightest that the Senju is only with them because he hasn’t cared to escape.

Still, for Madara to be moving things forward this quickly is a bit of a surprise. While one can't quite say he’s _cautious_ , he’s a careful leader, and Izuna can't imagine that every last one of the Senju will be happy seeking peace, no matter how swiftly that fool Hashirama jumps on the idea. The Uchiha are tired of war, but the Senju have always been relentless. Izuna might admire them for it, but…they're powerful. Most clans specialize in one form of fighting and that makes them predictable, straightforward to counter even if it’s not _easy_. The Senju, on the other hand—

Well, they're called ‘the clan with a thousand skills’ for a reason, and regardless of Izuna’s pride in both the Sharingan and his clan, he knows that eventually the Uchiha are going to be outmatched. It’s simple logic: not every Uchiha awakens the Sharingan, and once they do it requires more training, more time, while the Senju choose what they're best at and stick with it until they're masters.

It makes him angry, makes him scared. This is a war, a fight for survival, and the Uchiha are trying to push their way to the top of a steep slope, sliding back two steps for every one they take forward. Peace might be the end of them, if the Senju go back on their word.

Madara says they won't, but then, Madara is a dreamer. For all his cynicism, he wants to see the best in people, in situations. He _has_ to believe that peace is possible. Otherwise his dream will come to nothing.

It might be. Izuna thinks of what Tobirama said in prison the other day, of wheels knocked loose and ready to be made anew, and hopes somewhere deep down inside himself that it’s possible.

“You should stop thinking so hard,” Hikaku says dryly, catching his arm and steering him through a doorway he could swear was a foot wider just moments ago. “Any more and your head’s going to start smoking.”

Hikaku is smart, steady; people love him for his dependability and his ability to see straight to the heart of matters, regardless of him still being a teenager. A little abruptly, Izuna halts, dragging the other Uchiha to a stop with him, and asks, “Do you want peace with the Senju?”

It gets him a long, flat look from the younger man before Hikaku sighs, reaching up to tug on his short ponytail. “I'm not the best person to ask that of,” he says wearily. “I…”

 _Lost my family_ , he doesn’t finish, but Izuna remembers. In one battle, Hikaku lost both parents, and then barely a month later lost his uncle as well. “That’s _why_ I'm asking,” Izuna says quietly, turning to face him. “If anyone’s opinion should count, it’s the people who have lost the most.”

Hikaku hesitates, turning the matter over, and then shakes his head. “I don’t know. To have a chance to stop fighting, to keep more people from dying—I’d take it, I think. I—we keep seeing the Senju as monsters, inhuman, but…what Senju Tobirama did, coming here and saving you—a monster wouldn’t have risked it. There are a lot of people in the clan who are looking at the Senju in a new light, after that. Hard not to, really. He thought he’d die, and to keep the fighting from getting worse he came anyway.” A brief pause, and then he looks up to meet Izuna’s eyes, steady but with an undercurrent of emotion that Izuna can't quite pick out. “It was easy to hate him, and all the other Senju, when he killed you, Izuna. How am I supposed to feel after he risked his life to save you? And what if the other Senju are like that, too?”

That, Izuna supposes as he starts walking again, is the crux of the matter. Hating a massed, faceless enemy is simple. To hate someone who did something selfless and noble—that’s a lot more complicated.

The Daimyo’s soldiers are taught to dehumanize the enemy, to make them easier to kill. Shinobi have no such luxury; their targets are very human, and they never allow themselves to forget that. But it’s easy to take a trait that’s offensive, like the Senju’s arrogance, and apply it to the entire clan, exaggerate and inflate until that’s their _only_ trait.

Madara spoke of Tobirama on his knees, ready to die for the sake of quelling Madara's hatred, and Izuna can't imagine anything _less_ arrogant. It…puts things back in perspective, a bit.

(He doesn’t _want_ it to. Hatred is easy, simple. But the man he saw in that cell, the blunt, straightforward man he spoke to, is nothing like the cold, arrogant bastard he’s faced time and again on the battlefield. He can still draw a line between the two, but…it’s harder to loathe an enemy who saved him. Harder to loathe an enemy who rolled his eyes at him, who made a face at getting his fingers dirty eating with his hand. Who’s so undeniably _human_ , with more to him than just arrogance.)

Izuna sighs, shaking himself out of his thoughts as he nods to the guards at the edge of the small house. More guards than he expected, even with Madara's paranoia, which makes him curious. Surely Madara knows as well as he does that Tobirama could escape if he truly wanted to, the same way Madara or Izuna himself could were it the Senju holding them.

“You're coming?” he asks Hikaku distractedly, making for the main door.

Hikaku rolls his eyes. “Take it up with your brother,” he says blandly, and Izuna fixes him with a narrow look. That means Hikaku is his guard, and next time they spar Izuna is going to toss Madara into the pond and hold him under, the overprotective bastard.

With a low growl, Izuna stalks up to the door and slides it open with more force than is strictly necessary, preparing to find his brother and _skin him_ , regardless of witnesses and little things like alibis and plausible deniability.

Then he gets his first glimpse of the house’s occupants and stops short, every bit of brainpower deserting him with a nearly audible whoosh.

Seated on a cushion, Tobirama looks up at him and arches a brow, but keeps most of his attention on his outstretched arm and the woman bandaging it. A woman with long brown hair, sharp features, and a ragged, thigh-length dress over wrappings. The naginata is gone, as is her fury, but it’s undeniably the same kunoichi from the forest.

Izuna slams the door shut and takes three rapid steps back.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Hikaku says dryly, “Izuna? Doors lead _in_.”

“I—I— _my heart wasn’t prepared_!” Izuna protests, one hand flying to his face. He swipes over it, checking for conspicuous smears of mud, and then rakes his fingers through his hair. “How do I look?”

Hikaku is side-eyeing him in that particular judgmental way again. “Like you’ve spent the last six hours on patrol,” he offers blandly. “And got dumped on your ass a few times.”

“It was just the once!” Izuna hisses, but before he can say more, the door slides open and his elder brother steps out, looking at him like he has three heads.

“Izuna?” he asks carefully. “Is everything all right?”

“You _caught her_?” Izuna demands immediately, pouncing on the subject. “Who is she? Where is she from? _How_ did you catch her?”

Madara opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, the kunoichi appears behind him in the doorway. “First off,” she say sharply, “ _she_ can hear you. And second, I surrendered.”

The glance Madara gives her is dubious and a little offended. “I would say I caught you,” he counters stiffly.

She snorts. “You never laid a hand on me, Uchiha. Believe me, I surrendered.” Her gaze shifts to Izuna, and the cool expression turns into a sharp-edged smirk as she crosses her arms. “Little Uchiha. How’s your head?”

Izuna honestly tries not to stare, but—well. Her dress is short, and sleeveless, and her arms are lean but muscled. Her hair is thick, falling around her like a mink-brown cloak, and, uh, curves. Made very obvious by the way she has her arms folded under her breasts. He can't remember the last time he saw someone quite that appealing, and combining that with the memory of her effortless speed and power—

He’s lost. Goodbye logic, and he won't miss it at all.

“You hit hard,” he manages, after a moment of trying to scrape syllables together. “Uh, wow.”

That makes her smile, surprised and pleased. “You took it well,” she answers slyly, then turns on her heel and heads back towards Tobirama, who’s attempting to finish re-bandaging his arms alone. “Stop that, little cousin, or my hand might slip and leave you looking like a wrapped gift.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, but hands the roll of cloth over without protest. “Like the time your hand ‘slipped’ making Hashirama’s tea?” he asks, desert-dry.

The kunoichi laughs, low and throaty, and sinks gracefully to her knees. Izuna tries not to stare at muscular thighs and the pale lines of old scars, their exchange hardly even registering. “Well,” she counters, “he’s never asked me to make it for him again, so I’d count that as a success, wouldn’t you?”

Tobirama looks slightly sour. “No, because now he asks _me_ , Tōka.”

Tōka.

Tōka.

Izuna knows that name.

“ _Senju_ Tōka?” he squeaks, because he remembers meeting the kunoichi in question on the battlefield. Never directly—it was always Tobirama who faced him—but the only image in his head is of a genderless figure in shapeless armor, hair tied up and weapon in hand, her genjutsu ability almost on par with the Sharingan.

The kunoichi glances over at him, brow lifting, then ties off the bandage and sits back. Carefully she gathers her hair in her hands, twisting it into a tight coil, and then loops it up in mimicry of a topknot. “Better?” she questions, sounding amused.

Izuna is entirely speechless. He can see it now, but like overlapping images, he can also see the wild-looking woman who attacked them on the road. “Uh-huh,” he manages, a little dazed, and glances at his brother.

Madara has his face in his hands, and really, that’s a touch of melodrama that is entirely unappreciated. Izuna huffs at him, ignores the quiet snort from Hikaku, and lifts his chin haughtily. Slipping his sandals off, he steps past his brother and into the house, and takes a breath.

Well. Madara wants them to give peace a try. There are still a few doubts spinning through Izuna’s mind, but the Uchiha _do_ have leverage right now, enough to put them at an advantage. Holding Senju Tobirama _and_ Senju Tōka—second- and third-ranked in the clan, respectively, and close family to the Clan Head—is no small matter. This whole thing is going to go through no matter what entirely reasonable hesitations Izuna expresses, so he might as well make the best of it.

Besides, with motivation that looks like _that_ , Izuna is more than willing to try seducing the enemy to the side of good, no matter how many plays and novels have turned it into a trite plot device.

Izuna is a shinobi. He is totally willing to make the best of a bad situation.

“So,” he says, voice bright. “Did you need anything? Anything at all? I know being locked up like this must be boring.”

Tōka raises a brow and tilts her head, and her pale eyes flicker over him, considering. She leans back a little, folding her arms again, and asks, “It is, a bit. So what do the Uchiha do for fun?”

Apparently he’s not the only one tentatively interested. Izuna grins and offers her a hand. “I can show you the garden,” he suggests, and, when Madara makes a noise, rolls his eyes and adds pointedly, “Just outside the door. Still within the seals. With Hikaku and all the guards watching. Because I am _not helpless_.”

With a soft huff, Tōka reaches up, but instead of taking his hand, she locks her fingers in the collar of his robe and yanks him down. “ _Don’t_ ,” she warns sharply, eyes narrowed, “think that I need chakra to crush your skull like a melon, Uchiha.”

With an effort Izuna drags his eyes up from the corded muscles of her bicep, and through the fog in his brain just barely manages, “Uh-huh.”

One perfect eyebrow rises, and Tōka lets him go. “Hmm,” is her thoughtful response, and then she decisively drops her hand into Izuna’s. “Lead the way,” she orders, a corner of her darkly painted mouth curling.

Without hesitation, Izuna pulls her to her feet and ushers her out the door.

Hikaku might be snickering in the background. Izuna benevolently deigns to ignore him.

 

 

Madara looks _incredibly_ longsuffering as the door slides shut behind their relatives, and regardless of the situation Tobirama can't help but laugh a little. “I had my expectations about them meeting, but that wasn’t quite it,” he admits dryly, glancing out one of the wide windows to watch the pair disappear into the orderly garden. “Though Tōka has never cared much for expectations.”

Despite everything, despite the sense of danger that still itches along his spine, Tobirama is glad to see his cousin. He had felt stranded, adrift, with only enemies to connect him to his clan, and to have her appear out of the shadows of the prison was an unlooked-for blessing. Reckless, ridiculous, practically suicidal to the point where he could strangle her for it, but…

She came for him. No matter how many scenarios he plotted out before he left, that wasn’t one of them.

Then again, in every one of those scenarios he had pictured Hashirama breaking the news to her, long after he had died. He’d underestimated her ability to see through him, to realize something was wrong, and it annoys him faintly. He’d prefer to think he’s good at reading people, but apparently that’s not as true as he would like.

“I suppose it’s a step in the right direction, where a truce is concerned,” Madara says, though he sounds annoyed as well. A pause, and then he adds, aggrieved, “Izuna has a worrying weakness for strong women.”

The statement makes Tobirama arch a brow, even as the turns away from the view to give his cousin privacy—whether for murdering Izuna when he says something to provoke her or for something else, he can't quite predict. “A match made in heaven, then,” he says, a little wry. “Tōka always swore she’d never marry until she found a man who met her standards.”

Madara hesitates for a long moment, clearly debating whether he wants to know, and then asks warily, “Standards?”

Tobirama gives him a faint smirk. “Someone she could punch in the face, and he’d just compliment her on her form.”

Judging by the grimace Madara is wearing, that’s rather closer to the truth of the situation than he’d like. With a sigh, he sinks down on the other side of the low table, refilling his cup of tea, and then takes a long swallow.

Tobirama watches him carefully, looking for body language to give away his thoughts, but there's little to go on. Madara is, as ever, a mystery to him. He’s always confused Tobirama a little; the man is ferocious in defense of his clan, but has dreams to equal Hashirama’s. tireless in keeping the Uchiha strong even as the war drags on, but ready to throw it all away for his brother’s sake.

If Hashirama is a pacifist at heart, Tobirama thinks Madara must be a protector, ready to fight to the death in defense of what’s dear to him. Which is…a little disconcerting, because Tobirama would have said nearly the same of himself, and to see that now reflected in Madara throws him a little.

There's a soft clink as Madara sets his cup down again, and when Tobirama glances up at him, Madara catches his gaze and says bluntly, “In the cell, you said you didn’t want peace.”

“I said I didn’t know it,” Tobirama corrects, not about to let the Uchiha twist his words. “No one in this time does. The only ones who can see it are those like you and my brother. I can hardly picture what he speaks of sometimes—an end to the fighting I can believe in, because that will be treaties and contracts and laws. But everything that comes with that? I've never seen it, and I can't imagine it.”

At the mention of Hashirama, Madara's expression tightens, and he looks down at the tabletop, appearing almost pained. There's a long pause, and then Madara sighs, raking a hand through his wild hair. “You also said you did this for your brother.”

His brother, who hasn’t come. Tobirama expected it, but…it aches, a little, deep down in his chest. Logically, he knows that the Senju Clan Head walking right up to the Uchiha’s doorstep would mean death and a quick descent into war, but—

Tōka came. She left everything behind and came to find him, not even knowing if he was alive. She risked her life to find his _body_ , and though he knows Hashirama has too many people depending on him to do the same…

Taking a breath, Tobirama crushes down that selfish little part of him, buries it deep and locks it away, and answers evenly, “If you heard that, then you heard my reasoning as well. It hasn’t changed.”

Madara's eyes pin him in place, and even without the Sharingan spinning in them, they're still hard and intense. “You’ll break his heart,” he says quietly. “You are _brothers_.”

How ironic, coming from this man, who would have been so much a better brother to Hashirama than Tobirama can even dream of being. He looks away, fixing his eyes on the top of the wall just visible above the maples in the garden, and answers, “I don’t doubt my brother loves me, Madara. I have never doubted that.” Just how much, though he’ll never say that aloud. “It was not just for him alone. To turn your anger from my clan as a whole, to save the lives of those who would meet you in battle—that was worth facing you, even if you would have killed me.”

A breath, slow and controlled, and he finally meets that intent black gaze, not allowing himself to waver. “Perhaps Hashirama refuses to see it, but everything equalizes eventually. Had I not struck at Izuna, he would have killed me. Had I not surrendered to you when I did, had Izuna died, I have no doubt that you would have tried to kill me eventually. Those who got in your way would have died as well. I couldn’t allow that when it was in my power to change it. My actions lost me Hashirama’s fondness, even if he still loved me. And perhaps it’s selfish, but I didn’t want to look into my brother’s eyes and see only regret. This was a way to fix it.”

It’s not quite Izuna’s reasoning, circles and cycles held in balance by some cosmic power. Tobirama doesn’t believe in such things. But he knows that every action causes a reaction, that for everything gained or lost there is an equal and opposite return. It’s logic, fact, and if one keeps that factor in mind the course of events is simple enough to predict. There are always variables, but the base remains regardless.

Then Madara says, very quietly, “I'm going to break his _nose_.”

What?

“What?” Tobirama demands, bewildered, as he rises to his feet. The stupidity of it has his temper already fraying. “My brother is not at fault in this!”

Madara rises to match him, even though he looks unimpressed with the display. “You're _family_ ,” he insists, as though Tobirama is the stupid one for not seeing it. “Imagine the situation reversed. What would you do if you found out Hashirama sacrificed himself because of your words?”

Tobirama refuses to answer that, because he can see very well where the question will lead. “Irrelevant,” he counters. “My brother and I are different people, with different values and different responsibilities. It would be foolish to lead the Senju into war over revenge. It would change nothing, and only result in more deaths. Hashirama would never do such a thing.”

“But he _should_! Madara snaps, his own temper clearly snapping. “He should do _something_! To let his little brother die is _wrong_.”

“It was my choice,” Tobirama says, cold and precise, and hopes that it will be enough to make Madara drop the subject. He doesn’t expect much, though; Madara is nothing if not doggedly determined. “I am your _enemy_ , Uchiha. I have no need for your _protection_.”

Madara's mouth tightens into a grim slash. “Maybe,” he allows, though he doesn’t sound as though he believes it. “You're very nearly your brother’s equal on the battlefield. Were we there, I wouldn’t hesitate to agree. But he said something to you that made you think the only way to make him love you was to _die_. I would sooner fall on my blade than do something like that to my little brother. You’ll excuse me if I don’t let it slide in a friend.”

Tobirama makes a sound of wordless frustration, because Madara doesn’t _see_. “I am not Izuna!” he snaps. “Whether you are reacting like this on principle or because it offends you personally, I would remind you that we are different people. Keep your convictions; I want no part in them.”

“Obviously,” Madara says coolly, “you do. Otherwise this little suicide trip wouldn’t have occurred to you, Tobirama. You would let yourself be killed to make your brother happy—how am I supposed to disregard that?”

“By remembering that I almost killed _your_ brother,” Tobirama growls, entirely exasperated and bordering on true anger. “I am not a victim, I am not blameless, and I do not count myself as such. Hashirama’s dream encompasses _everyone_ , and that far outweighs one life.”

“You also healed my brother, though it would gain you nothing.” Madara takes a step to the side, around the table, and faces Tobirama fully. They're of a height, even if Madara is broader and more muscular, and when Madara holds his gaze Tobirama finds he can't quite force himself to look away again. “You tried to send your cousin away when she came to rescue you. Maybe you don’t see it, but I do—you think death is the only way to redeem yourself to Hashirama, which means he said something, or did something, to make you feel that way. What was it?”

It’s easy to forget that Madara is a genius in his own right, the best in his clan, capable of fighting Hashirama himself to a standstill. No one else in the world can manage such a thing. And Madara is clever, quick—he notices more than Tobirama would like, even if he can't grasp the point Tobirama is trying to make.

“He said nothing that was not true,” Tobirama insists, unwilling to be moved from this opinion. It was _my_ decision. He knew nothing of it, and had Tōka done as I expected, he wouldn’t have for a week. Everything would have been…easier.”

“Losing a brother is never easy,” Madara says, low and sharp. “If you can't realize that—”

“You and Hashirama are not the only ones who lost siblings!” Tobirama growls, temper snapping as he takes a threatening step towards the other man. “I know the grief of it as well as you do! But I am a _shinobi_ —I will act as I must for the good of my clan, and to have you by his side, seeking peace, is best for Hashirama! He will—”

He cuts himself off sharply, cursing himself for the loss of composure, but by the narrowing of Madara's eyes he can guess the end of that sentence. “He’ll be fine?” Madara finishes for him, looking grim. “If you think that, Tobirama, then clearly Hashirama did something to make you feel that way. And as a brother, I can't find that anything but _unacceptable_.” He turns sharply on his heel and stalks out of the room, collecting his sandals and then sliding the door shut behind him with careful restraint.

Alone in the quiet house, Tobirama breathes out, slow and careful, and rubs his hands wearily over his face.

The contrast between Madara and Hashirama is…jarring. And it makes him envious, if just a little, of the easy camaraderie between Madara and Izuna. He and Hashirama have something similar, of course, but…not such simple friendship. Love, of course, because Tobirama loves Hashirama and knows that regard is returned, if differently. But they aren’t _friends_ , like the Uchiha brothers. They're too different, and for all that they were raised together they were raised apart as well.

Hashirama was their father’s heir, but Tobirama was his perfect soldier. And Tobirama never protested, has never regretted anything except the difference in ideals that stands between himself and Hashirama. What he is now suits him, and he wouldn’t change it.

But…he wonders, sometimes, what it would be like. How it would feel to have every ounce of his brother’s love and trust, even though Tobirama has done little to earn them in reality.

He thinks of Itama again, bright and warm and steady, soft-hearted and better at healing than killing, and feels the ache in his chest redouble.

Hashirama was not the only one who lost siblings. Tobirama loved all of his brothers, would have done anything for them, and their deaths were impossibly hard to bear. If it were possible to give his own life to bring even one of them back, Tobirama would without a moment’s hesitation or regret.

Inhale. Exhale.

That’s a fantasy. It has no bearing on reality, and Tobirama dismisses it, slowly sinking back down to his knees before the table. The bandages on his arms itch over the healing cuts, but the irritation is ignorable, like the annoyance of his hair falling into his eyes. More immediate is the touch of worry over what Madara will do, if he’ll actually carry out his threat. More than once Tobirama has been tempted to break his brother’s nose himself—mostly when woken early, without tea, for yet another of Hashirama’s mad schemes that without fail always end in disaster—but he still hopes Madara won't. After all, he wants their clans to find peace, and though Hashirama will doubtless not hold it against his best friend, some of the Senju will definitely take offense.

Troublesome. Tobirama rubs the bridge of his nose and restrains an aggravated sigh. Why can't everyone just be _logical_?

 

 

Madara recognizes that he’s being stupid and aggressive and far too sensitive of a matter that only peripherally concerns him, even as he slams into his study with a fit of pique brewing beneath his skin, but he can't help it. Tobirama is a Senju, is an enemy right now, but—

But Madara looks at him and sees his face in the shadowed cell, hears _he values peace, and I stole his chance at it_ —blame, self-directed, and he can't help but wonder if Hashirama blamed Tobirama too.

Madara was furious when Tobirama struck Izuna down. Filled with rage and the intent to kill and the desire for nothing less than Tobirama’s mangled body at his feet. But they're shinobi. Death is expected, no matter how heartrending, and rationally Madara knows that it was a fight to the end with only one winner possible. That Tobirama won is down to his superior speed and jutsus. Had Izuna won, it would be the same for him.

If Hashirama blamed Tobirama for _surviving_ —

Madara really is going to break his nose.

He takes a breath, trying to calm himself. He’s overreacting, as Hashirama likely did. But still—

Still. Madara imagines his brother in Tobirama’s place and just wants to _hurt_ someone. No little brother should doubt their older brother’s love, and despite his words, Tobirama clearly does. He wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t think it was the only way to redeem himself.

Madara doesn’t think of himself as a good man, but family is everything to him. Clearly it’s the same for Tobirama, but—

With a flutter of wide golden wings, a hawk alights on the windowsill, drops something onto the wood, and vanishes in a puff of smoke. With a faint frown, Madara approaches the delivery, reaching out with his senses before he actually picks the thing up.

It’s a rock, and not even a pretty one—plain, dull grey with a few faint stripes of black across it. But it’s perfectly round and smooth, almost flat.

Perfect for skipping across a river, Madara thinks a little grimly, tightening his fist around it.

Hashirama thinks of him as a friend, he knows, and clings to his dream of a world united. It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t killed Madara yet, because compared to Hashirama, Madara is still just as outmatched as he was when they were children. And, though he rarely admits it aloud, Madara feels the same way. Hashirama _understands_ , in a way no one else does, and regardless of their loyalties that’s never gone away. Their grief and determination drew them together, and now…

Maybe Hashirama needs to be reminded of their _reason_ for wanting peace in the first place, since it looks very much like he’s forgotten.

It’s a good thing Madara feels more than up to the task.


	6. she goes forth out of hands and

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays are _nuts_. I manage to forget this every year, and then am flabbergasted all over again when they finally roll around. Sorry for the delay! Consider this a nondenominational winter holiday gift, because everyone deserves it. :)

Madara has always had a bit of a problem keeping his temper.

Izuna is the type to seethe quietly, and hide it behind a cheerful smile. It’s enough to make Madara wary, because when his little brother is angry, the sunnier he seems the worse it actually is. Things build and build and simmer until it all erupts. In contrast, Madara tends to blow up at every little thing, but unless it’s something grave, his anger vanishes quickly and leaves exasperation in its wake. He can't stop his outbursts, can't control his actions when he’s furious, but he’s never harmed anyone he hasn’t meant to, because clan is everything, _family_ is everything, and Madara never forgets that.

He’s like a geyser, prone to going off frequently and explosively, and calming quickly. But in this…

In this he thinks he can understand Izuna’s simmering, churning type of anger.

He breathes out slowly, controlled and careful, and turns the stone Hashirama sent him over in his hand. Bewilderment—another thing with which he’s never dealt easily—wars with the rage, because—because he thinks he can understand Hashirama’s position, as much as he hates it. Dreams of peace, especially when they're so long-held, are hard to let go. And Hashirama, like Madara himself, has been clinging to the idea of peace for so very long that it’s almost an obsession. However, where Madara dreams of peace for his family’s sake, Hashirama wants peace for _everyone’s_ sake, and that puts things in a rather different perspective.

For all that they have a rare understanding of each other, Hashirama and Madara are very much different people, and this incident has only brought that knowledge into greater focus. Hashirama looks forward, his eyes taking in the world as a whole, and Madara can't quite manage that. His peace is based on survival, on his family, on never seeing another of his brothers die before their time.

Hashirama wants peace because it will make the world a better place, and it’s a good dream, but Madara is too selfish to follow it fully.

He wonders a little absently, bouncing the stone in his hand, if that’s one of the reasons they parted as children, if that’s why they’ve been friends, but at odds for so many years. Because when given the choice, Madara picked his family. He chose Izuna and his father over a friend who shared his dream, and walked away without looking back. Because, even if neither of them understood him, they were his _family_. Even if it meant war, meant fighting and dying for something he had never accepted and never believed in, Madara wasn’t about to turn his back on anyone dear to him.

The resolve he felt that day woke his Sharingan for the first time, and Madara hasn’t allowed himself to falter since.

At long last, the Uchiha are tired of war. At long last, Madara can finally take a few tentative steps towards a lasting peace, and he will. Because Izuna nearly _died_ a handful of days ago, because it was the closest Madara has ever come to losing his little brother, and he won't allow it to happen again. There will be protests, he’s sure—the elders are already up in arms, and Madara had to spend the majority of his meeting with them shouting at the top of his voice to be heard—but Madara can't let things stay as they are. In their world, facing a clan as mighty as the Senju, it’s more likely than not that someday, someone will get lucky. Izuna is good, nearly Madara's equal, but he only needs to falter once.

Next time, there might not be a miracle waiting in the form of a suicidal enemy.

Well. Perhaps not suicidal, Madara allows with a sigh. If anything, Tobirama is _self-sacrificing,_ to the point that Madara can't fathom why anyone ever lets him out of their sight. Can't fathom why _Hashirama_ ever lets him out of his sight, because a streak of selflessness that runs that deep is something to fear.

Tobirama is strong. He’s a fearsome shinobi, for all that his brother is the one to earn the title of God. Madara has never seen anyone better with Suiton jutsus, even among those from clans in Mist Country and Wave Country. And Tobirama isn’t one to rely solely on those skills, either; he has a formidable mind, and his fuinjutsu echoes that. For the Senju to lose him—it might not be a devastating blow, but it would be a grave one. And yet…

And yet Tobirama managed to walk out of his clan’s compound unchallenged, unimpeded. Hashirama said nothing, and only Tōka marked his departure. Perhaps he snuck out, but…was there really no one else to notice that he was missing?

Granted, Madara thinks, snorting softly, Tobirama is hardly a man who invites friendly overtures. He’s standoffish and so blunt that it borders on rude, never wholly able to comprehend that most people’s minds can't work quite as quickly as his. He’s frequently annoyed, more prone to glares than smiles, and among a clan of people who tend towards earth-brown hair and dark skin, his paleness and red eyes make him a singular and intimidating figure. It’s likely that there are few people, even among his own clan, who are close enough to him to notice his absence.

But Hashirama should have. And it was that that Madara marked as the first oddity, when Tobirama came. He had said his brother wouldn’t notice for at least three days, maybe even a week, and—

That’s wrong. It’s so very wrong that it makes Madara's skin prickle, makes him grit his teeth to hold back a growl. Because even if Tobirama and Hashirama aren’t close, they're _brothers._ To fight—and after Tōka’s words, and Tobirama’s, he’s certain that’s what happened—and then dismiss Tobirama completely from his mind…how could Hashirama do such a thing?

Clearly, if Tōka felt worried enough to break Tobirama’s confidence and then come after him, this isn’t simply Madara not understanding things between non-Uchiha people again. This is _wrong_ , and Madara won't be convinced otherwise.

Hashirama is a great man, a great leader. Of that Madara has absolutely no doubt. But that doesn’t mean he’s even halfway decent as a brother. It might even mean the opposite, in fact, because Hashirama looks to his dreams and sees the future, while Madara does the same and sees his family.

He wonders, catching the smooth-edged rock and wrapping his fingers around it again, whether it’s because he’s always heard Hashirama’s version of the future that Tobirama can't believe in it. What if…what if he could understand Madara's version better? Tobirama was willing to sacrifice his life for his brother, so Madara thinks he could. That’s what Madara's peace is about, after all: freedom from loss. Ending the fighting, uniting the warring clans—that’s a bonus. That’s secondary. First and foremost is saving everyone precious.

Madara wonders, too, why he wants Tobirama to understand, to agree. Maybe Tobirama isn’t an enemy anymore, but…he’s still very close to it. Unlike Hashirama, who walks a different path to the same goal, Madara and Tobirama walk the same path, but with separate destinations. It’s only by chance. By chance, coincidence, a series events that somehow toppled forward in a domino-fall of events to lead them to…this.

Never before has Madara allowed himself to contemplate either of the Senju brothers as anything beyond a threat, a danger to the clan. Now, though, he looks at Tobirama and for the first time sees the man’s potential as an ally. He’d make a powerful one, especially against the dissenters—after all, there's no better ally than the man who was once their most formidable enemy. If Tobirama can want peace, can risk his own life for it, surely the rest of his clan can do no less.

Madara doesn’t trust him, not entirely. But…even “not entirely” means that there is some small bit of trust growing, despite Madara's intentions. Likely he’ll always be at least partly wary, given Tobirama’s role in Izuna’s near-death, but just as with Tobirama’s offer of healing, this is a chance to save Izuna’s life, and Madara will take it even if there are risks. Better a few moments of danger with the possibility of safety, rather than a lifetime of danger without it. And beyond that, Tobirama has had more chances than Madara can count to escape, and he hasn’t so much as appeared to consider it. He even attempted to send a rescuer away, and Madara chooses to take that as a declaration of sincerity.

Besides, he’s yet to wrap his head around the relationship between the Senju brothers, and until he can, Madara isn’t entirely sure he wants to let Tobirama leave.

It’s foolish. Izuna would call him a busybody of the worst kind and rib him mercilessly, and Tobirama most certainly wouldn’t thank him for his misplaced protectiveness, as their conversation last night showed. Even so, Madara can't quite manage to ignore the low-level burn of uneasiness in his gut. For so long, it’s been him and Izuna, leaning only on each other, and to have a brother but let them think their death would go all but unnoticed—

Madara isn’t one to champion other people’s causes, but if he has to he’ll beat Hashirama over the head until he realizes just how much he’s let his relationship with his brother slip away. And if that doesn’t work, Madara will be more than happy to hide Tobirama away where he won't ever again have to look at his brother and feel abandoned.

Tobirama can insist all he likes that it was his choice, that he did it for the good of the clan as a whole. Madara saw his face when they spoke of redemption, of making amends. Whatever Hashirama said to give him the impression that he had to die—had to suffer a gruesome, agonizing death, because Madara knows his own rage, knows what would have happened had Izuna actually died—in order for Hashirama to love him.

Never, ever, _ever_ will Madara accept that it was an even remotely healthy relationship that led to something like that.

Footsteps pull him out of his musings, the quiet crunch of shinobi sandals on the rocky shore. Madara glances up to see Hashirama step out onto the water, clearly intending to cross over to his side, and—

Red. The red of rage is all Madara can see for half an instant, and before he can even pause to consider he’s on his feet, and the round stone he was holding is instead hurtling through the air at impossible speeds.

Even Hashirama, with his incredible reflexes, isn’t fast enough to dodge it. The stone strikes him squarely in the center of the forehead with a dull _crack_ and he yelps, arms pinwheeling as he suddenly loses his balance. One foot slips beneath the surface of the water, then steadies, but by then it’s too late. Madara crosses his arms over his chest and watches with utmost satisfaction as the God of Shinobi shrieks and tumbles into the river, disappearing briefly before he surfaces with a spluttering gasp.

“Madara!” he wails, fighting the current to drag himself up onto the bank. “What was that for?!”

Were this one of their childhood meetings, Madara would laugh and mock him, but it’s not. It’s not, and for one brief moment all Madara can hear is Tobirama’s voice, a quiet and steady, ‘ _My actions lost me Hashirama’s fondness, even if he still loved me. And perhaps it’s selfish, but I didn’t want to look into my brother’s eyes and see only regret._ ’

Tobirama saved himself, and Hashirama looked at him with regret. Tobirama _lived_ , and Hashirama blamed him for it.

Maybe there were other factors. Maybe Hashirama didn’t mean it like that. But Madara _doesn’t care_ , because this man’s little brother came to him prepared to _die_ , and it was Hashirama’s words that drove him there.

He doesn’t answer, simply glares as Hashirama staggers upright, and the Senju’s expression sobers. Straightening, he pushes his sopping hair back behind his ears, squares his shoulders, and meets Madara's gaze with wide, entreating eyes.

“Madara,” he says quietly. “Madara, where is Tobirama? What happened to my brother?”

Every spare moment of the day, and a good portion of the previous night, Madara devoted solely to planning this conversation, laying all possible avenues out in his mind. But…what comes out when he opens his mouth isn’t the calm demand for information that he had intended. Instead, he snaps, “You saw the battle as well as I did, Hashirama. What do you _think_ happened to your brother?”

It’s cruel. Unspeakably cruel, to allow Hashirama to assume the worst. But the vicious, angry part of Madara—not small, never deeply buried—relishes watching Hashirama’s eyes go even wider before his expression crumples. He takes a step forward, face a mask of incomprehension that slowly bleeds into horror, and he reaches out with one hand, as though begging Madara to change his words.

“No,” Hashirama whispers. “No, please, Madara, you don’t mean that.”

Madara feels faintly sick, at this charade and Hashirama’s naivety in equal measure. “What did you _expect_?” he hisses. “Really, when he came to me, knelt before me and offered himself up, what did you think I would do? Really, Hashirama, did you send him to me expecting I would have _mercy_?”

The devastation on Hashirama’s face is easy to read, as is the horrified denial in his eyes. “No,” he repeats. “No, you wouldn’t. We’re _friends_ , you can't have—”

“We’re _enemies_ ,” Madara snarls. “Have you forgotten our clans are at war? Have you forgotten all the dead between us? Maybe someday there will be peace, but that was a battle! Izuna was a victim! We captured an enemy soldier in our woods after he mortally wounded my little brother, and you want me to have _mercy_?!”

The sudden, wild surge of grief is unanticipated, though Madara likely should have expected it. Hashirama gives a choked cry and throws himself forward, lashing out, but it’s slow and clumsy, far below his normal standards. Madara dodges it easily, then sidesteps the following punch and twists away from the sudden lash of Mokuton that makes branches explode from the ground.

“He was my _brother_!” Hashirama cries, and his voice cracks as Madara knocks a punch aside.

“And yet you sent him out to die,” Madara taunts, but even though he wants to he doesn’t try to return any of the blows. “I’m surprised you didn’t tie a bow around his neck yourself.”

A snarl turns into a sob, and Hashirama stumbles. He loses his footing and falls to his knees, skidding painfully on the stone, but doesn’t try to rise. He simply kneels there, shoulders starting to shake, fingers curling impotently into the rocks, and something wet drips down onto the earth. “I—didn’t,” he chokes out, though Madara can barely understand him through the tears. “I didn’t want him to go, I _didn’t_. I told him to leave me be, to go away, but—now he’s _gone_ and—and—”

He sobs. Not dramatic, dainty tears, but—ugly. Ugly and ripped open, every last bit of anguish laid bare without mercy. They tear at Hashirama, make him curl in on himself, shaking, hair falling around him to hide his face.

Madara doesn’t need to see it, though; he knows that torment very well. The only reason he isn’t caught in its grasp right now is because Tobirama managed to produce a miracle. And…he can't sustain his fury, can't cling to that red haze in the face of Hashirama’s clear grief. With a soft sigh, he crosses to Hashirama’s side and drops to his knees, reaching out to curl a hand around Hashirama’s shoulder. The other man flinches at the touch, but Madara ignores it, gripping tightly.

“Stop,” he orders, and it’s not quite gentle, but then he’s not a gentle person. “Tobirama is alive. I didn’t kill him.”

Hashirama’s head snaps up, face blotchy from crying, his eyes red. “Then _why_ —?” he starts, but his voice breaks.

“Because I _would_ have killed him,” Madara answers, not letting Hashirama’s gaze waver. He wants this man to know the truth, because he’s never hidden himself from Hashirama and he isn’t about to start now. “If Izuna had died, I would have tortured him until death was a mercy. But Izuna is alive. As is your brother.”

Another sob, but this one is relief more than sorrow, and Hashirama tilts his head back, turning his face up to the sun. “Alive,” he repeats in a whisper. “Oh, gods, thank you. Thank you, Madara.”

By all rights, Madara should feel compassion right now. Remorse. Pity at the very least. Instead, he thinks of Tobirama stealing one last bit of comfort in the touch of his cousin’s hand, remembers ‘ _He values peace, and I stole his chance at it. What else could I do?’_

Remembers ‘ _What kind of brother would I be?’_ and Tōka’s snapped response of, ‘ _The_ living _kind!_ ’, and just…can't.

Tobirama is not a man who invites closeness. Even so, for a bond to have fractured this much, for one brother to stand so separate from the younger who trails faithfully in his shadow, it can't be solely Tobirama’s fault here. By willful blindness, by ignorance, by simple inattention, Hashirama has been neglectful. Not of his clan, not of those who need him, but…Tobirama doesn’t need him, not the way everyone else does. For all that he’s younger, Tobirama is cool and calm and formidable, well able to stand on his own. There is no physical dependence to tie him to Hashirama, only emotional, which is far, far easier to overlook.

But graver, Madara thinks, in the long run.

“Explain it to me,” Madara says quietly. “How did your little brother go from cutting mine down in battle to all but throwing himself on my kunai?”

Hashirama’s breath hitches, and he drops his gaze from the sky to meet Madara's. There are tears still running down his cheeks, and the sheer force of the emotion hanging around the man makes Madara's skin crawl, but he doesn’t allow himself to look away. After a long moment, shame clouds Hashirama’s eyes, and he bows his head.

“We…argued,” he starts, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “I had—when we returned from the battlefield, all I could think was that if Izuna told you with his dying breath not to trust us, _me_ , then you never would again. The dream of clans united was _ours_ , meant to be shared, and I was…petty. Petty and angry and clinging to bits of grudges I should have let die long ago. So I asked Tobirama why he couldn’t have shown mercy, just once—he’s fast enough, smart enough. He could have thought of a way. But Tobirama…”

He shakes his head, releasing a shuddering breath. “He’s…very like our father. Always quick to draw his sword, always testing the very boundaries of sense when he’s looking for power. Did you know he found a way to reanimate the dead? He can't quite bring them back to life, but…I caught him, once, with a cat who had just died. He recalled its soul and—when I confronted him he couldn’t even understand what I was angry about.”

Despite his best efforts, a cold shiver works its way down Madara's spine. He considers the implications—armies of the dead, familiar faces with familiar souls, called back to fight—and has to swallow bile. It’s easy to forget, when people call Hashirama the God of Shinobi, but Tobirama is even more of a genius than his brother. And that bit of horror alone just made him someone Madara would be far less willing to face on a battlefield. He’d chose Hashirama’s straightforward resolve over Tobirama’s cunning brilliance any day.

“A cat?” is all he manages, when he finally gets his mouth working again. If it’s a faintly dry rasp, Madara thinks he can be forgiven. Then he remembers the topic they're straying from, and shakes himself. “You fought,” he says instead.

Hashirama nods, expression twisting with something that’s not quite regret, but not quite anything else. “I was angry,” he offers helplessly. “And—lonely, I suppose. You're the only one who’s ever understood, and with Izuna’s death I lost that. It’s not an excuse, but…I lashed out. I said things I shouldn’t have—”

But he doesn’t say they weren’t true. Madara rakes a hand through his hair before shoving himself to his feet and turning away to pace. “And you blamed him for surviving,” he bites out. “Hashirama, we are friends, but our clans must come first! And that was _war_! He is your _brother_!”

“You think I'm unaware of that?” Hashirama rises as well, looking as though he’s about to take another swing at the Uchiha.

“It certainly seems like it! Reverse our positions—can you even _imagine_ me driving Izuna far enough away that he would do that? That he would think the only way to win back my love was to _die_? You imbecile, this is not a matter of dreams and friendship! He is your family!”

There's little victory to be had in watching Hashirama’s face go about ten shades paler. One staggering step back, as if struck with a mortal wound, and Hashirama sinks gracelessly back to the ground. “He said that?” the man whispers through bloodless lips. “He _thought_ that?”

“ _My actions lost me Hashirama’s fondness, even if he still loved me. And perhaps it’s selfish, but I didn’t want to look into my brother’s eyes and see only regret_ ,” Madara repeats from memory, because those words have hardly left his mind since Tobirama spoke them, and sees Hashirama flinch, clearly recognizing his brother’s wording. Refusing to allow himself to feel pity, he crosses his arms over his chest and glares. But Hashirama looks at him with wide, watering eyes, and he finds he can't hold it. With a sigh, he just shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Tobirama is alive. Izuna is alive. I've hardly laid a hand on your brother. Go back to your clan, Hashirama, and wait for my messenger. If we’re all very lucky, we may even get the peace we want out of this.”

He turns, but before he can leave a large hand catches his arm, and Hashirama gently tugs him back. “Tobirama is well?” he asks, and as ever, his heart is on his sleeve, in his eyes. “He’s not…?”

“Tortured?” Madara finishes for him, tugging his arm out of Hashirama’s grip. “No. There was some rough handling, but bargaining chips are treated far better than prisoners of war. Both he and that hellcat kunoichi who came after him are safe.”

Relief bleeds through the concern, and Hashirama smiles faintly. “She tried to gut me,” he confides. “After she opened his letter.”

“I was planning on breaking your nose,” Madara returns sourly, but the sight of the perfectly round bruise already blooming with dark colors on the Senju’s forehead is at least slightly mollifying. “I'm not a good man, Hashirama, but I hold family dear. To see you throw that away—”

“Overlook,” Hashirama corrects, a little sadly. “But, Madara, had you killed Tobirama, seeking revenge for something that couldn’t be undone would be pointless. I wouldn’t risk my clan’s future for that. I _couldn’t_.”

Madara's answering smile is entirely too crooked to hold any humor. “I'm well aware. That’s the difference between us, Hashirama. You _are_ a good man, and if we do manage to achieve peace, you’ll be the best to lead us into it, and keep us there. But I would put my family before _anything_ , because I'm selfish and callous and spiteful, and even if I regretted it I wouldn’t waver. Thank whatever deity brings you luck, because if Tobirama hadn’t managed to save my little brother, I would have killed him. And should peace fail, should we meet on a battlefield again, I won't hesitate to strike down anyone who threatens those dear to me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, but turns on his heel and leaps for the trees, landing on a low branch and jumping for the next without pause. The river grows small behind him, the rushing of the water fainter, and Madara turns his face towards home. He has things to think about, and a request for peace talks to draft. There's no time to linger of friendships that can't even officially exist yet.

 

 

Tobirama sits on the edge of the small deck, bare feet resting on the cool grass as the setting sun shades everything gold and crimson. His eyes sting, rather more sensitive to light than most, but it’s lovely enough that he doesn’t care.

Three days ago, he’d thought sights like this lost forever, had thought he’d never see either sunset or sunrise again, and though he’s hardly one for sentiment, he finds he has a new appreciation for such things now.

There are guards, of course—three that he can sense, and the kunoichi with the burn scar, who’s openly leaning against the wall behind him. The rest are shadowing Tōka and Izuna, on a walk somewhere within the compound. Tobirama thought he heard talk of a library, and the knowledge-hungry scholar inside him wants desperately to follow, to see the Uchiha Clan’s repository of learning, but he knows better. For one, Tōka seems amusingly interested in the Uchiha who only a week ago was one of her enemies, and growing up with her has taught Tobirama not to interfere with her dates for any reason. (When Tobirama was twelve and Tōka eighteen, he’d crashed one of her dates to demand explanation of a particularly tricky genjutsu, and she’s never allowed him to forget it. Or live it down, for that matter.)

For another matter, Tobirama is quite happy to have even a few hours that he can pretend are to himself. He hasn’t had much opportunity, not since Madara let him out of the cell, and like the hermit Tōka so often calls him, he’s more used to solitude than this constant surveillance. The guards are a necessity, but one that Tobirama is determined to tune out. All the better for contemplation, and despite his time in the cell, Tobirama feels as though he hasn’t had nearly enough since he arrived.

It’s Madara's fault. Tobirama is used to seeing him as an enemy to hate and fear, a friend of Hashirama’s whose shadow Tobirama will never escape. Used to seeing a warrior ready to slaughter Senju, rather than the frazzled man who passed by briefly this morning with word that he’d browbeaten the elders into some semblance of agreement, and would be sending notices out shortly. Used to seeing a shinobi, rather than a man.

The shift is…disorienting.

From somewhere beyond the edge of the garden, bright laughter rises, and Tobirama lifts his head, smiling in spite of himself. The sound of children at play is unmistakable, and simply hearing them is enough to brighten Tobirama’s mood. He was always the one to help their mother care for Itama and Kawarama, since Hashirama had duties as the eldest, and it continued even after she died. The skill has carried over, and one of the best ways Tobirama has found to distract himself from nightmares and dark thoughts is to surround himself with children. The opportunities for doing so are often slim, but Tobirama takes advantage of them whenever he can.

Preforming a few small tricks with chakra is a simple enough price to pay for solace, after all.

As if in answer to that thought, the shouting and laughter draws nearer. Tobirama turns to look as a small group of children tumble out of the garden paths, pushing and shoving. In the commotion, a red ball bounces away unheeded and rolls to a stop at Tobirama’s feet. Half a moment later, one of the younger boys cries out and stumbles after it, reaching out automatically.

Very aware of the guards’ eyes on him, and the way their hands linger close to their weapons, Tobirama slowly reaches down and picks the ball up carefully, then offers it to the boy with a faint smile.

“Yours, I take it?” he asks politely.

The boy is clearly an Uchiha, but his dark hair is wilder than most, wisps straggling past his ears and trying to curl. Black eyes land on Tobirama’s face, then widen, and he ignores the toy to lean forward intently.

“You don’t have the Sharingan, but your eyes are red,” he says wonderingly. “Why’s that?”

It’s a question Tobirama has heard before, if rarely phrased so bluntly. Still, there's no malice in this child, so he answers calmly, “I was born this way. My grandmother had red eyes as well.”

“And white hair?” the boy wants to know. He takes the ball when Tobirama offers it again, but doesn’t seem inclined to leave.

Honestly, Tobirama doesn’t mind. It’s an escape from his thoughts, even if it isn’t quite the one he intended to find. “No, her hair was red. She was an Uzumaki.” Seeing the boy’s face screw up in confusion, Tobirama clarifies, “From a clan in Whirlpool Country. Most of them have red hair.”

The boy considers this for a moment, then determinedly plops himself down on the deck next to Tobirama, setting his toy at his feet. “I saw a snake that looked like you once,” he says cheerfully.

“That’s…interesting,” Tobirama offers after a moment, not sure whether he should be insulted. “Was it a nice snake?”

He grins, showing off a missing bottom tooth, and then stretches his arms out as far as they’ll go. “It was a summons, so it was _this_ big! Can you summon snakes, too?”

There's a clan that’s particularly attuned to serpents, though Tobirama can't quite recall their name. He wonders how this child would have gotten close enough to meet one of their creatures, but doesn’t ask. “No. I have a contract with the snow leopards, but I don’t summon them often. They don’t like to be disturbed unless it’s for something very important.”

“That’s too bad,” the boy consoles him. “I like cats. I'm Kagami.”

Unable to help it, Tobirama gives him a smile. “I do as well,” he admits. “It’s very nice to meet you, Kagami. I am Tobirama.”

That earns him another wide grin. “My sister’s cat just had kittens! They're really, really, _really_ small. Do you want to come see them? Kaa-san says we can look if we’re super quiet and don’t touch them yet.”

Somehow, Tobirama doesn’t think that his guards will make allowances for him to leave simply to look at kittens, as much as he would like to go. “Forgive me,” he tells Kagami gravely. “But my cousin will be back soon, and she’ll worry if I'm not here to greet her. Another day, perhaps?”

The boy looks disappointed, but nods reluctantly. “Okay. They're probably asleep anyway. They sleep a _lot_.” One of the girls shouts his name, and Kagami looks up. They group is heading back towards the far end of the garden, giggling and laughing, and Kagami scrambles from his perch to snatch up his ball again. “I have to go. Bye, Tobirama!” With a cheerful, energetic wave, he bolts after his friends, and Tobirama chuckles softly, raising a hand in answer as he watches the boy go.

He doesn’t see Madara at the edge of the path, leaning against the gatepost and watching him with a considering look. After all, the setting sun is in his eyes, and he’s far too caught up in a moment of borrowed peace to look behind him.


	7. she returns into hands

Tobirama is halfway through his morning mug of tea, brewed so bitter that it’s bracing, when he hears a distant knock. He ignores it, seeing as it’s most likely Izuna come to throw himself at Tōka again.

Were he a better man, Tobirama would go out, intercept the Uchiha, and warn him that in no way, shape, or form is Tōka a morning person. She tends to sleep past noon whenever possible, and waking her prematurely often leaves the unsuspecting with an urgent need to visit a medic. Tobirama has gotten very, very good at disappearing whenever people start searching for volunteers for that particular task.

Given that he is decidedly not a better man, Tobirama instead wonders absently if there's a discrete place from which to spectate.

He’s just in the process of reluctantly deciding that it’s a little too risky to attempt when the door of his room slides open without fanfare—or knocking, but after living with Hashirama and being friends with Tōka all his life, Tobirama hardly expects such courtesy anymore. Arching a brow, he studies his cousin, who looks twenty seconds from grisly murder as she lists heavily in the doorway.

“Goddamn all you morning people,” she hisses, sounding as though the state is personally offensive. “Get your ass out there and shut him up, little cousin, or I’ll do it _myself_.”

With blunt force trauma, if nothing else, Tobirama is sure. Tōka’s taijutsu is a fearsome thing, even without chakra to augment it, but she has a habit of defaulting to fists whenever she’s annoyed. Their teacher always despaired of her—mostly, Tobirama thinks wryly as he rises, because she’s always made it _work_. And unless they're familiar with her, people never see the punch coming.

“Of course,” he says mildly. “I'm sorry for waking you. I had assumed it was Izuna.”

“ _Izuna_ was explicitly informed of what would happen to him if he disturbed me before a reasonable hour of the morning,” Tōka retorts waspishly, then turns on her heel and stalks back towards the front of the house. Tobirama follows at a safe distance, wondering whether she really thinks that will keep Izuna at a distance. Given the look on the Uchiha’s face during their meeting, he feels his skepticism is entirely justified.

Still, he knows better than to say anything of the sort, and lets Tōka retreat into her bedroom without calling her back. The front door is still standing partway open, but Tōka apparently couldn’t be bothered to recall her manners and invite their guest in, and Tobirama strangles an aggravated sigh as he crosses to open it fully.

“Forgive my cousin,” he says, the words entirely rote by now, and then stops, blinking at empty air. Automatically, his eyes drop, and he’s met with a bright, happy smile. Clearly, this is the reason Tōka looks even more irritated than usual—she’s never been able to stand cheerful people before ten in the morning at the absolute earliest. As the sun is just now touching the horizon, they're very lucky she didn’t just start swinging.

Still, Tobirama’s been awake long enough that he himself is fully coherent, and he offers a small smile as he goes down to one knee. “Kagami,” he says with much more honest pleasure. “Good morning. You're up very early.”

“Good morning!” Kagami answers cheerfully, reaching out and grabbing Tobirama’s hand in both of his. “I always get up this early! The birds start talking, and I like to listen to them.”

The boy’s poor mother, Tobirama thinks, amused. “That’s a healthy habit to have,” he responds. “I enjoy sunrises myself.”

“Yep!” Kagami agrees. He tugs on Tobirama’s hand a little. “Do you want to come see the kittens now? Your cousin’s home so it’s okay, right?”

Tobirama hesitates, casting a glance past Kagami towards the edges of the property, but though he knows there are guards nearby he can't see them, and his sensing ability is still deadened by the seals on the house. “Wouldn’t your mother object?” he asks, mostly to buy time. “She might not want a stranger in her house.”

“She won't care,” Kagami insists, cheerfully certain. “She says as long as I let her sleep until the sun is up, and I don’t burn the village down, she doesn’t care what I do.”

That sounds more like a parent’s desperate attempt to get another hour of sleep rather than blanket permission, in Tobirama’s opinion, and he has to hide a smile. “Perhaps I can interest you in a cup of tea before we go?” he suggests.

“There's no need for that,” a new voice interjects, and Tobirama glances up towards the source to find Izuna’s frequent companion, the brown-haired Uchiha with a short ponytail, walking towards them with a faintly long-suffering expression. “Kagami, you know you're not supposed to bother people.”

Kagami pouts even as he turns, still clinging to Tobirama. “But, Hikaku!”

“It’s fine,” Tobirama assures the man, rising from his crouch. “He’s not a bother.”

“You're just about the only one who would think so,” Hikaku says, but it’s very fond as he rests a hand on the boy’s head. A pause, and then he glances up at Tobirama, assessing. “If you're putting him off because you don’t want to leave without telling anyone, I can escort you.”

Instantly, Kagami brightens. “Yeah!” he crows excitedly. “Come on! Please, I want to show you the kittens!”

Startled, Tobirama meets sharp black eyes, trying to read the Uchiha’s motivation in making such an offer. Then he looks down at Kagami, who’s beaming unabashedly, and can't resist. With a small chuckle, he inclines his head to the boy. “I would be honored. Thank you Kagami. And you as well, Uchiha.”

“Hikaku,” the other man corrects. A flash of a faintly wry smile, and he adds, “Between your cousin and Izuna, I get the feeling we’ll be seeing quite a bit more of each other, Senju.”

“Tobirama,” he returns, and then offers an equally dry, “And I believe you're correct, at least as long as Tōka doesn’t break his neck while she’s showing off for him.”

Hikaku laughs, clearly startled, and steps back so that Tobirama can pull on his sandals and join them outside. “Unfortunately, I don’t think even that would turn Izuna off,” he admits.

“Or Tōka,” Tobirama mutters even though he’s probably safe from his cousin eavesdropping right now. He casts one last glance at her room, decides it’s not worth risking life and limb to tell her that he’s leaving—especially when he’ll likely be back long before she’s conscious—and joins the two Uchiha outside. Hikaku pauses at the edge of the porch, craning his neck to speak in low tones with the kunoichi crouched there, but before Tobirama can hesitate Kagami grabs his hand and pulls him onward.

“My sister said I could keep one of the kittens!” the boy says excitedly. “Do you want to help me pick out which one?”

Tobirama glances down at the tiny hand wrapped around his, feels the faint tug of a small body, and for one moment is impossibly, unspeakably grateful that Madara is trying so hard for peace. In ten years, in eight, Kagami will be old enough to join his clan on the battlefield, and while Tobirama knows himself, knows that he’ll do his duty no matter what—

He doesn’t want to kill this boy. Never wants to kill another child. He’s a good shinobi, able to bury his feelings and wield a kunai regardless of his own opinion, and he knows that once a child reaches thirteen, or fourteen, they're considered an adult, but—

But.

There have been too many small corpses left behind, even though both Madara and Hashirama try to keep the youngest out of harm’s way. For all Hashirama’s accusations that Tobirama is too quick to draw his sword, Tobirama has never wanted to add to that count.

“I think,” he manages finally, “that it should be your choice. It will be your cat, after all.” Seeing the edges of a pout forming, he offers Kagami another small smile and adds, “But I’ll be very happy to see which you pick.”

Kagami beams, bouncing closer so that he can walk next to Tobirama without ever releasing his hand. “I'm gonna train it to be a shinobi cat!” he announces. “It can wear a bandana with the Uchiha fan and carry a kunai and help me be the best shinobi ever!”

The image is enough to make Tobirama chuckle. “Perhaps a senbon would be better,” he suggests. “Or ninja wire. A kunai might be too heavy unless it’s a very big cat.”

“Ninja wire!” Kagami leaps on the suggestion. “It can run around and tangle people up and then come back and sit on my head, and I’ll do a biiiig fireball and we’ll win!”

“Breathe, Kagami,” Hikaku reminds him, but he’s smiling as well as he falls into step. “Try talking in sentences, rather than paragraphs.”

Kagami sticks his tongue out at the other Uchiha. “You're mean, Hikaku,” he complains, half-hanging on Tobirama’s arm as he leans around him to make faces at the man.

“And you're rude,” Hikaku retorts. “Tobirama is a guest of the clan, not a climbing wall. Stop being a nuisance.”

Seeing wide black eyes getting bigger and taking on a faint glossy sheen, Tobirama casts Hikaku an annoyed look and then glances down at his companion. “You're not,” he assures the boy, and then hesitates. He usually makes the offer to the Senju children he knows, and they're always enthusiastic, but he isn’t sure if it would be crossing the line with an Uchiha. “Would you like to ride on my back? You can direct us more easily from there.”

Hikaku’s eyebrows fly up, mouth quirking in what is clearly a suppressed grin, but he says nothing. Kagami, however, practically vibrates with enthusiasm, bouncing in place as he cries, “Yes! Nee-san says I'm too big so she doesn’t let me anymore but I _really_ like being up high so thank you, Tobirama!”

Apparently the clan’s stoicism is a learned thing, rather than a genetic one, Tobirama thinks in amusement, crouching in the street. “You are very big,” he allows, and swallows a chuckle at the beaming smile he gets in response. “As long as it’s not too far, however, I think I can manage.”

Kagami wastes no time throwing himself at Tobirama and latching on like a monkey, wrapping his arms around Tobirama’s neck and his legs around his ribs. Curving one arm under him to steady him, Tobirama carefully rises to his feet, gritting his teeth a little as the lacerations on his arm pull uncomfortably. It’s a small pain, though, easily ignorable, and he puts it out of mind.

“That way!” the boy declares, pointing straight in front of them. “We live out by the cherry trees.”

Obediently, Tobirama starts walking, and pointedly doesn’t look over at his other companion. Apparently not catching the fact that he’s being ignored, Hikaku watches him for a moment, smiling a little, and then turns his eyes ahead, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his yukata.

“You always look so dignified on the battlefield,” he says, clearly amused. “I don’t think I could have imagined something like this even if I tried.”

“Perhaps you should just stop attempting, then,” Tobirama retorts, though for the most part he doesn’t care. His dignity has survived far worse than giving a six-year-old a piggyback ride. After all, he did grow up with Hashirama, who is practically the antithesis of poise.

“You’ve seen him on the battlefield?” Kagami chimes in, listing forward over Tobirama’s right shoulder to get a look at his clansman’s face. “Were you fighting together? Was it a big battle? Is he as strong as you?”

Hikaku rolls his eyes. “We weren’t fighting together,” he answers. “At least one of the times was a big battle, and no. He’s stronger than me. Stronger than Izuna, even.”

Kagami's eyes go wide with what looks like awe, but Tobirama keeps his gaze fixed ahead of them. There are a handful of people in the street, all of whom seem to have decided they're going to take as many glances at the trio as they can before they're caught staring. Tobirama ignores them, mostly because he can't think of anything else to do.

“It was luck,” he says shortly. “Luck and planning. Izuna and I are evenly matched, but he hadn’t seen my new jutsu yet, and was unprepared to counter it.”

“One could argue that because you had something new, and he didn’t, it counts as outmatching him,” Hikaku counters mildly, then shifts the subject and asks, “What was that jutsu, if you don’t mind me asking? I've never seen anything like it.”

“What jutsu?” Kagami demands excitedly, and Tobirama has to snap a hand up to catch him as he practically goes tumbling to the side. “Was it like a fireball? A fire _tornado_?”

Tobirama laughs before he can help it, because he remembers Kawarama’s awe the first time he managed a jutsu, remembers the immediate litany of every “awesome” jutsu that he was then going to attempt, regardless of logic or human limits. In the face of Kagami's bright grin, the memory only stings a little—one of the reasons Tobirama tries to surround himself with children whenever his thoughts get too dark. “That would be difficult,” he answers. “I have no talent with fire. But I can make a water dragon.”

“A big one,” Hikaku adds helpfully, grinning. “Big enough to swallow one of Izuna’s fireballs whole.” A sideways look at Tobirama, and he admits, “I caught a glimpse of his face the first time you did that, and nearly got gutted since I was laughing too hard to block.”

Tobirama is vaguely disappointed he missed it. “The steam was too thick for me to see it,” he laments. “A shame.”

Laughing, Hikaku shakes his head. “I'm sure there will be other chances. Izuna likes to appear calm and dignified, but he’s…” Apparently at a loss for words, he just waves a hand. “Like around your cousin. He flails. And he _still_ manages to make it charming.”

Tobirama makes a vaguely skeptical noise, but otherwise keeps his peace. He’ll wait to see the outcome of the situation before he starts making comments.

“But what about the jutsu?” Kagami complains. “I want to hear about that! Was it cool?”

Amused, Tobirama glances back, raising a brow at the boy. “I think so,” he says dryly. “But that’s likely because I invented it.”

“It was like teleportation,” Hikaku adds, seeing the boy’s aggravated expression. “Tobirama was facing Izuna, and then when he attacked Tobirama _stepped_ and suddenly he was behind Izuna.”

“More like a summoning,” Tobirama corrects. “I lay a marking on an object or a person, then activate the jutsu. It creates a fold in spatial distance, which allows the original marked object to act as an independent pocket dimension so that a streamlined summoning can take place.”

There's a moment of silence before Hikaku rolls his eyes. “You lost me at ‘marking’,” he admits, and then, seeing Tobirama about to open his mouth again, adds, “But it’s a summoning, I got that part. I'm guessing the speed comes from the ‘streamlined’ part?”

That is, at the very least, far more than Hashirama has ever been able to pick out of his explanations. Admittedly, Tobirama all but stopped trying to simplify them for his brother when he was twelve. It never did much good regardless. “Exactly. Barriers and wards can't exclude it, either, because the matrices are entirely opposed to a simple transportation—” Seeing the patient stare Hikaku is giving him, he breaks off with a huff and rolls his eyes right back. “A shunshin is basic movement given a sudden burst of speed, even if it looks like teleportation,” he clarifies. “It can be blocked with even simple barriers. The Flying Thunder God can't be, because it relies on the basics theories of summoning.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Hikaku leads them off the main street, down a row of neat houses all sporting cherry trees in their courtyards. “And you invented it?”

Tobirama shrugs as much as he’s able to with Kagami still draped over his shoulders. “The shunshin frustrated me,” he admits. “I was attempting to improve it when the idea came to me.”

“Kaa-san!” Kagami cries, wiggling in Tobirama’s grip as he tries to leap down. “Kaa-san! Tobirama came to see the kittens with me!”

Wincing as the boy slides over his bandaged arms, Tobirama drops into a crouch to let Kagami jump down. A moment later, the boy is bolting down the road, to where a faintly aggrieved-looking woman is just setting aside a shopping basket. She catches Kagami as he throws himself at her, giving him a hug and a small smile, and then straightens to regard Tobirama warily.

“Hikaku,” she offers calmly. “Senju. I apologize for my son.”

“Good morning, Aya, and don’t worry. He hasn’t been any trouble,” Hikaku returns.

With a chuckle, she ruffles Kagami's hair, even as he protests. “He’s always trouble. Please, come in. Would you like some tea? The water should still be hot.” Her gaze lingers on Tobirama, but though there's caution in her eyes, there's no coldness.

Even so, Tobirama is wary. He’s interacted with very few of the Uchiha outside of Madara and Izuna, and though he has yet to see any overt hostility, he’s braced for it all the same. He follows behind Hikaku as the woman leads them into a neatly-kept house, and then into the main room.

“Kagami, go wake up your sister,” she orders as they take their seats. “Remind her that she has duties in an hour.” Seeing him open his mouth, she cuts him off with, “After that you can show our guests the kittens, I promise.”

“’Kay,” Kagami agrees cheerfully, and bolts down the hall, starting to shout as he reaches the corner.

“That should keep him occupied for a while,” Hikaku says with a chuckle. “Is Yui still as resistant to getting up as I remember?”

The woman sighs, brushing back a lock of dark hair as she carries the tea tray out to them. “Of course,” she says a little wryly. “She takes after me that way. Kagami, unfortunately, takes after Dai.” She glances up at Tobirama through long lashes, even as she sets the cups out, and adds calmly, “Dai was my husband. He was killed by a Senju shinobi right before I found out I was pregnant with Kagami.”

Tobirama goes stiff. He doesn’t quite flinch away when she leans over to set his cup in front of him, even though a part of him wants to.

Apparently seeing his reaction, the woman just shakes her head. “The tea’s not poisoned. I'm a better host than that,” she chides, lifting her own cup to take a careful sip. “I saw Dai fall, and I killed the man who had killed him. And then a girl, no more than thirteen, tried to kill me, because I had slain her father.”

This time when she looks up, she meets Tobirama’s eyes squarely, and there's still no hostility in their dark depths. Only weariness, and an old grief that wears at the edges like water over a stone. “I've raised my children alone,” she says bluntly. “It’s been very hard, Senju. But I've never forgotten the look on that girl’s face, or that in the space of a moment, I might have made her an orphan. It’s been hard, and I'm tired, but I've never been as tired of anything as I am of this damn war. So thank you for saving Izuna. We’re all better for it.”

Tobirama doesn’t allow himself to turn away, holding her gaze. A hesitation, and then he says quietly, “I was the one to wound him in the first place.”

At that the woman smiles, small but honest. “Yes,” she agrees. “That was war. But what you did afterwards—that’s why you’ll find so much support among the Uchiha. It was unnecessary, unasked for, and unexpected. We honor bravery, and sacrifice for the good of the many. You came to make amends when no one had even thought of such a thing. In the face of that—well. Thank you.”

There's a twist in Tobirama’s chest, something tense but not unpleasant, and he silently inclines his head, unsure of what else to say. “I look forward to the end of the war,” he manages at last, and Hashirama might be surprised, but it’s very much true. “Too many have died, on both sides.”

She nods, takes a sip, and then asks bluntly, “Is it true your brother sent you here to die?”

Hikaku chokes on his mouthful of tea and starts coughing. “Aya!” he manages to get out between wheezes.

Aya looks unrepentant, but before she can say anything, there's a cry of distress, and Tobirama only just manages to hang onto his cup as a small body barrels into him. Kagami all but latches onto him, arms locking around his neck, and demands, “Is that true? Tobirama, we won't let you die, don’t worry!”

Tobirama sighs, trying to decide whether to pry the boy off of him. In the end, he simply raises an arm, gently looping it around Kagami's shoulders. “He most certainly didn’t,” he says, rolling his eyes at the unimpressed expressions he receives from both of the other adults. “Brother had no idea what I was planning.”

Kagami pulls back to regard him seriously. “I've got an extra futon in my room,” he offers solemnly. “You can sleep there if you don’t want to go back home, Tobirama. Kaa-san said she’s okay with me having my friends over, and I don’t mind sharing.”

That makes Tobirama smile. “Thank you,” he says, just as somber. “I appreciate the offer, Kagami. However, my cousin would be sad if I didn’t keep her company.”

The boy wrinkles his nose. “The scary lady from this morning?”

“Yes,” Tobirama confirms with a faint sigh. “She’s very scary, isn’t she?”

Aya chuckles softly. “I take it this is the one Izuna is so enamored with?” she asks dryly. “The clan’s been laying some very interesting odds on them.”

Tobirama doesn’t even try to feel surprised that the Uchiha are currently making bets on Izuna and Tōka’s relationship. Honestly, were they back at the Senju compound, his clan would be doing the same. “If you're planning to place a bet,” he says, rolling his eyes, “you should be aware that I caught her dithering over her clothes last night, trying to decide which outfit showed off her muscles the best.”

“And,” Hikaku adds, perfectly innocent as he hides a wicked grin behind his teacup, “Izuna was doing the same. He’s also doubled his training since she got here. Not, of course, that that has anything to do with the situation.”

Tobirama snorts softly. “How sweet of him. He’s making it a challenge for her to beat him up. I'm sure Tōka will be very appreciative.”

Hikaku laughs. “She’s third in your clan, isn’t she?” he asks interestedly. “I've heard her genjutsus can rival anything cast by the Sharingan, but not much else.”

“She is,” Tobirama confirms. “Tōka doesn’t like to make her abilities widely known, so that she has an advantage, but she’s very strong. She’s the one who taught me taijutsu.”

Aya’s brows rise, and she looks contemplative. “I wonder if she’d care to spar,” she says thoughtfully. “I've been off the battle rosters since Kagami was born, but taijutsu is my specialty, and I've kept up with it for guard duty. It would be nice to face someone equally skilled.”

“To find another kunoichi who specializes in hand to hand? She’ll be ecstatic—careful!” On instinct, Tobirama jerks back just in time to avoid the dark head that nearly collides with his chin as Kagami, apparently bored of the conversation, attempts to wriggle out of his lap.

“Oops,” Kagami says cheerfully, then grabs his hand again and starts tugging. “Come on, I want to show you the kittens! They're awake right now, so we can look at them.”

“Kagami,” Aya warns, but Tobirama just smiles a little as he sets down his tea and rises to his feet.

“Thank you,” he says solemnly. “I would love to, Kagami.”

The boy laughs, leading him down the hall and around a corner, where a door stands half-open. “Here!” he exclaims. “Kaa-san got kinda mad because they were all born on our best blanket, but it’s really soft and Kuri likes it best, so I think it’s okay just this once.”

Carefully, Tobirama kneels down beside him, glancing through the opening to see a chestnut-colored cat stretched out and purring softly, contentedly kneading at the blanket with her claws. Four kittens, only a few weeks old, totter around her on unsteady paws, and the clumsy movements make Tobirama smile a little.

“They're beautiful,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.” Kagami sounds faintly awed. He reaches out, stroking one finger down the spine of the closest, a little orange tabby, and then looks up at Tobirama with a wide smile. “Last night Kaa-san said we can hold them if Kuri doesn’t mind. Would you like to?”

The Senju compound is home to several strays, but Tobirama hasn’t had a cat of his own since his childhood pet died. He’s fond of cats, partly because he can see something of himself in them, so he reaches forward and lets his hand rest on top of the cloth. The mother cat gives him a lazy look, but doesn’t move. A moment later, a kitten that looks more like a ball of silvery fluff than anything nearly trips over his fingers, decides his skin smells interesting, and clambers onto his palm.

“She likes you!” Kagami cheers softly. “My sister calls that one Hime.”

“A very suitable name.” Tobirama cautiously lifts the kitten to eyelevel, and she studies him with kitten-blue eyes for a moment before rearing back in the cup of his hand and taking a daring swipe at his fingers. With a chuckle, Tobirama strokes her head gently, then sets her down. Kagami is cradling the orange one to his chest, smiling brightly. “Is that one your favorite?”

“Yeah. I wanted to name him Katon, but Kaa-san said it would make the other kittens laugh at him, so I call him Momo instead. ‘Cause he looks like a peach, right?”

The plump kitten is currently curled up and chewing on his finger, and Tobirama admits that the resemblance is almost uncanny. “It’s a good name,” he agrees, smiling. “He will make a good partner for a strong ninja.”

Kagami grins, clearly pleased. “We’re gonna be the best,” he agrees proudly. “You should take Hime, and then you don’t have to bother your snow leopards when you need help. She can do it for them!”

“I think for now she needs to stay with her mother,” Tobirama reminds him. “She’s very little, so it would be cruel to separate them.”

“Maybe later,” Kagami agrees, letting Momo wobble out of his cupped hands and back over to the mother. Then he bounces to his feet, all bright enthusiasm and good cheer, and offers, “Do you want to see my room? Oh, maybe you can show me your water dragon jutsu! Or the teleporting one! Or maybe my sister can teach you a fire jutsu, since she’s really good with them! She hasn’t almost burned down the house in _weeks_.”

Chuckling, Tobirama lets himself be dragged along.

 

 

“If you're looking for my cousin, he was kidnapped by one of your brats,” Tōka says as soon as she opens the door find Madara on the other side. “And if you're here to warm me off your brother, you're an idiot.”

“I don’t have any brats,” Madara retorts, folding his arms over his chest. “And in regards to my brother, it’s his own business who he makes a fool of himself in front of. I'm hardly about to stop him.”

Tōka stares at him judgmentally for another moment, then nod, apparently satisfied. She steps out, ignoring her sandals, and joins Madara on the porch. “All right. So what is it, then? Tobirama left just after dawn, so I can't imagine he’ll be much longer, but if you want to leave a message with me, I’ll let him know.”

Madara hesitates, but at length decides that seeing as the only thing waiting for him is paperwork, he can stand to linger for a few minutes. “I’ll wait, thank you,” he manages, mostly polite, and moves to take a seat on the steps.

After a moment, Tōka joins him, sinking down gracefully and crossing her arms on her bent knees. “You know, you aren’t nearly as much of a bastard as I thought you would be,” she says, and it’s almost a complaint. “I expected a lot more shouting and death threats, honestly.”

“A good portion of that happened before you arrived,” Madara admits. “The situation right now is…hopeful.”

Tōka smiles a little, turning her gaze on the garden. “It is,” she agrees, and laughs. “I can't say I ever expected to be sitting in the Uchiha compound, or walking around with the Clan Head’s heir.” There's a pause, and then she sighs. “Thank you. For sparing Tobirama. I know you only did it because he saved Izuna, but you could have killed him anyway, and you didn’t. I helped raise him, and he’s dearer to me than anyone else, so I'm grateful.”

Madara raises a brow at her, surprised. He’d realized that Tobirama and Tōka were close, of course, but hadn’t thought their age gap was great enough for something like that. They certainly act more like siblings than anything else. “Raised him?” he repeats.

“Mm.” Tōka rests her chin on her arms, still not looking at him. “Lady Tsubame died when he was six and I was twelve. There wasn’t a lot of raising left to do by that time, but I helped where I could. Hashirama was always busy, so Tobirama got left with his brothers a lot. I think that’s one of the reasons he’s always so serious—he was never allowed to be a child. Not then, and not once Hashirama started speaking out against their father. Butsuma was a great shinobi, but he had no idea how to be a parent, and Tobirama was always so smart that Butsuma focused on making him a strong soldier and forgot he was a child. Or he just didn’t care—I never could tell, with him.”

For a long moment, Madara debates how to respond. But he’s curious, and if anyone can make sense of things, he thinks it will be this woman, who did what Hashirama should have. “I spoke to Hashirama yesterday,” he says quietly. “He said that Tobirama was very like their father.”

Tōka’s smile disappears, replaced by a scowl. “Let me guess, you got the ‘always quick to draw his sword, always ignoring morals in favor of gain’ line?”

Anger shifts like a tide inside him. “More ‘testing the very boundaries of sense when he’s looking for power’ in the second part, but yes. I take it he’s said such things before?”

The kunoichi shrugs. “Maybe not to others, but to me? Yes. I can understand it; after all, they're very different people. Hashirama would rather hold back, even in front of a threat, while Tobirama would rather strike it down and eliminate it before it can _become_ a threat. But he’s not Butsuma, and I don’t think Hashirama has ever fully realized that. I don’t think he _wants_ to.”

She sighs softly, raking a hand through her long hair. “Things haven’t been the same between them since Tobirama followed him to his meetings with you and then reported it to their father. Hashirama feels betrayed, but he’ll never come out and say it because he doesn’t want to hurt Tobirama. And at the same time he can't forget it, so it lingers between them, even if Tobirama isn’t aware of it.”

That sounds…very much like something Hashirama would do, clinging to his good intentions and ignoring the reality of the situation. With a beleaguered sigh, Madara rubs the rapidly multiplying wrinkles on his brow. “I really _should_ have broken his nose,” he mutters.

That startles a laugh out of Tōka. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it for you,” she offers with a lazy, entirely predatory grin, and Madara is suddenly, unsettlingly aware of just why it is Izuna seems so…besotted. “It’s about time someone other than Tobirama gets the chance to bloody him up a bit.”

“I don’t appreciate you talking about me when I'm not present,” Tobirama says, making them both look up to find him coming up the path, Hikaku next to him. Giving Tōka a scowl, he adds, “Nor do I appreciate you threatening my brother.”

Tōka rolls her eyes, and the resemblance between the cousins becomes startlingly obvious. “I beat the big dork up all the time, and you’ve never protested before,” she counters, rising to her feet. “So? Got a kitten in your pocket? That kid on your back?”

Hikaku snickers, even as Tobirama pointedly ignores him and Tōka both to look at Madara. “Was there something you needed?” he asks coolly, but his expression is cautiously cordial.

Madara glances at Tōka and then at Hikaku, both of whom are watching with unconcealed interest. “Lunch,” he says with a huff at the two spectators. “I wanted your opinion on peace terms.”

“I'm not invited?” Tōka drawls, lazily amused. “How hurtful. I should at least come along to chaperone.”

“You’d break my brother’s heart so easily?” Madara retorts. “I think he was planning a picnic. Are you really going to miss it?”

There's a subtle shift to the kunoichi’s expression, to something Madara might almost call excitement, and she smooths a hand over her hair. “Well. I suppose if he’s gone to all the trouble,” she starts, and Tobirama snorts. She gives him a poisonous glare, huffs, and stalks back into the house without another word.

“Seeing as _they're_ the ones who need a chaperone, I’ll wait here,” Hikaku volunteers, though Madara knows that smile. He’s going to tease Izuna mercilessly as soon as the other man arrives. Since Madara's torn between that same reaction and feeling impossibly longsuffering, he doesn’t protest, but nods to Tobirama and falls into step beside him as they head for the gate.


	8. and is with sleep...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the delay, but my part-time work took over a lot of the time I spend writing. Still, I got to play interpreter for a week, which was massively tedious and gave me plenty of time to start thinking of new MadaTobi stories. Because I am obsessed, if that slipped your notice.
> 
> (That said, if you have a plot you want to see, or just want to wave at me and make sure I [probably] notice, I'm on Tumblr as blackkatmagic, and always open to prompts/plots/ideas/random squeeing.)

Hashirama wanders through empty, echoing halls, a ghost set adrift in the sunlight, and wonders how it came to this.

His hand traces idly along the walls, fingers spread, and he thinks of his little brother, of Madara's. Thinks of peace, and peace bought with blood and sacrifice, and what it takes to make such things worthwhile. He feels hollowed out, just as echoing as the hallways, with an edge of bitter grief that stems from the bewildered anger in Madara's eyes.

Madara is the type to do anything for family. Once upon a time, Hashirama had thought himself the same, because losing his little brothers was a pain worse than any physical wound could ever be. He’d stood before too many graves, though, to think that his loss was the most important, the deepest torn. Too many small graves, children killed for little reason and with no thought to the future, and maybe, at one point, he’d been so busy seeing everyone else’s grief that he had lost sight of just what he _did_ lose.

He loves Tobirama. Loves him deeply, fully, because they are blood and there are some things you just can't escape, but—

But ever since they were children there's been a faint thread of _something_ that takes away from that.

Maybe it’s that, as a child, he never saw Tobirama mourn. With the distance of years, Hashirama looks back on it now and feels a trickle of shame, because he’d never _given_ Tobirama any place to mourn. When Kawarama died he had raged, and Tobirama had comforted him, eased the fire of his anger into the embers of determination. He’d comforted Itama as well, soothed him through nightmares and made sure to include him in training when he otherwise would have gone off on his own. And then, when Itama had died—

Well. Hashirama had had Madara, a new friend who shared all of his beliefs, and Tobirama had…no one. Not even Tōka, because for all their closeness Tobirama wouldn’t have gone to her to grieve. Hashirama can see that now. She wasn’t his immediate family, wasn’t the one to lose a brother, so Tobirama would have spared her his pain.

Had Hashirama been there, they could have mourned together. But Hashirama was caught up in a new friend, and his grief faded quickly. He’d not thought to wonder, in the midst of it, just how his solemn, stoic little brother was faring. Because Tobirama was _always_ fine, always grounded. He’s always been steady even when his thoughts fly, and where other geniuses Hashirama knows wander around with their heads in the clouds, Tobirama never has. Without Tobirama to take care of the details he overlooks, Hashirama is well aware that he would not be half the Clan Head that he is, and that’s the way it’s always been between them. Hashirama forges ahead with enthusiasm and optimism, and Tobirama follows along behind, grumbling and snapping and calling him an idiot, but fixing things. Taking care of all the small things that are necessary, tedious, and thankless, because if Hashirama wants to succeed _someone_ is going to have to do them.

And yet—

And yet.

Tobirama walked out of the compound without armor or weapons. He walked straight to the Uchiha, prepared to die to make Hashirama’s dream even a little more possible, and it’s only by chance that he didn’t.

Somehow, that hurts even more than thinking him dead.

All their lives Hashirama has known that Tobirama has a streak of self-sacrifice in him that is wider and deeper than most. He’s always the one to cover their retreats, to push himself beyond the boundaries of sense in a battle, just so that one more Senju will make it home. He’s a warrior who has never been anything else, but—Hashirama wonders. If they didn’t live in this cruel world, if their fate was softer, gentler, just who would his little brother be?

Always before, Hashirama has thought _soldier_ and seen no other possibilities, but…what if there are? Because Tobirama healed Izuna, from what he can gather, and Hashirama remembers more than once going to Tobirama after a bout of training gone wrong. He’d throw himself at Tobirama with tears in his eyes, complaining of the pain, and Tobirama would roll his eyes and tell him to compose himself and act with dignity and then heal him anyway, face furrowed in concentration as his hands glowed green.

Maybe, in a perfect world, Tobirama would be a healer. Or maybe he’d be a scholar, because if Hashirama knows anything it’s that his brother loves books with a fervor most reserve for worship. Maybe a scientist, creating jutsus not to deal death but to help, to build. Heaven knows Hashirama wouldn’t have made it so far with his Mokuton without Tobirama’s interest in his limits, his theories on how to go even farther.

Theirs isn’t a perfect world, though, not by any measure of the term. Tobirama is a soldier, a shinobi, because he never had a choice in the matter. There were never any other options for them, no chances for a different life. Hashirama has always regretted it, because he’s the type to look back and mourn untrodden paths.

Tobirama never has, because he looks at the world as it is, the world around them, and simply accepts that any change will have to come from his own two hands.

With a soft sigh, Hashirama pauses in front of his brother’s bedroom, hand hovering over the latch. Tobirama likes his privacy, and whenever Hashirama comes in to bother him there's huffing, pointed reminders not to cling. He’s never chased out, though, and right now, with the rest of the house echoingly empty, Hashirama needs this little bit of comfort. He slides the door open and steps in, shutting it behind him.

The room is full of afternoon light, obsessively neat the way it always is. Tobirama’s futon is neatly folded and set aside, and on top of it…

Hashirama’s breath feels clogged in his chest as he picks up the happuri faceguard and sinks down to his knees on the floor. The metal is worn, dented here and there where it saved Tobirama’s life, or saved him pain, but the Senju crest is still brightly polished, undamaged. A stray silver hair clings to one corner, and Hashirama smooths his thumb over it, aching somewhere deep inside.

He misses his brother. Misses those exasperated sighs, the faint smiles, the way Tobirama will always find him to spar just when Hashirama most needs a break from paperwork. And…maybe it’s not just because he’s with the Uchiha right now.

Maybe, now that he looks back on it, Hashirama has been missing his brother for a long time.

It’s his own doing, of course. He allows Tobirama close but never too close, always a little…guilty, he supposes, now that he’s thinking on it. Guilty because Hashirama _doesn’t_ understand. Because he’d wished several times, after arguments, after fights, that Madara truly was his brother, and Tobirama wasn’t. All children think such things, Hashirama knows. It’s a part of being young, of not cherishing what you’ve always taken for granted.

He wonders, now, if Tobirama ever had thoughts like those, and doubts it. Tobirama was never a child, even when he was young. At six, at nine, at thirteen, he was a shinobi first and foremost, and everything else fell by the wayside. And because hindsight is always clearer, because he sees now what he never could as a boy, Hashirama knows that Tobirama never wished ineffectually, wistfully for things that weren’t. He accepted what was, moved on, and didn’t look back. He’s still that way.

And Hashirama feels that guilt again, for childish thoughts, for never apologizing when he had them. For overlooking Tobirama, time and again, in all the ways that truly mattered.

Hashirama traces his fingers over polished but battered metal, and thinks of what might have happened if he hadn’t let his temper get the better of him that day in his office. If Izuna had died, Madara would be their enemy. And what would Hashirama do, to win Madara back? To win back the peace they always dreamed of? He can't think of much that he _wouldn’t_ do, and…it unnerves him. Because if Izuna had died, if Tobirama had killed him, there would be no way Madara would ever forgive Tobirama for landing that blow. And yet…Hashirama thinks he might still take Madara in, were there a chance. He’d accept Madara, knowing the threat he posed Tobirama, and…

That makes him a terrible brother, doesn’t it? To hold friendship and a shared dream above his brother’s safety, to value peace more than family?

Their whole world has suffered with these constant wars. There is no one who has not lost someone, no one who has not grieved for a loved one at least once. And to halt the downward spiral, so save this bloody, beautiful, terrible world, Hashirama thinks that he would do _anything_. He would turn on anyone who proved themselves a threat, ally himself with anyone who could help. Hashirama values Madara greatly, yes, but he values peace even more.

He just—wants to live in a world where death is not a looming certainty. He wants whatever children he has to be _free_ , to actually be _children_ and not little soldiers destined for too-small coffins. Does that make him a terrible person?

Carefully, Hashirama sets the faceguard back where it was and rises to his feet, looking around the small room. Tobirama’s old swords hang on the wall, even the broken one that Hashirama remembers nearly cost Tobirama his life in battle. They're worn as well, but carefully maintained, and Hashirama can't fight a small smile as he gently touches one lacquered sheath. It’s so very like his little brother to honor the swords that served him, though he’ll never show such sentiment in company.

The desk is neat and orderly when Hashirama settles into the chair set before it. Everything is at right angles, carefully positioned, and Hashirama doesn’t touch anything, knowing that he will never be able to return it to the precise arrangement Tobirama prefers. Everything here is for work, but again there's a touch of sentiment set off to the side. Hashirama would think it an afterthought, except that the wood of the small frame is worn smooth from frequent handling. It’s a sketch, small and carefully done, and Hashirama recognizes his brother’s hand, more used to the exact lines of seals than the curves of human faces.

But this, too, is done with love and care, and Hashirama can't help but pick up the frame, smoothing his finger over the edge of the paper within. Kawarama and Itama, heads bent together over a book, smiles on their faces, and Hashirama smiles at the familiar scene. He’s represented too, fast asleep on the far side of the table, and he has to laugh a little, because he remembers this moment. Kawarama had just mastered his chakra enough to manage a jutsu, and they were looking for one he thought was suitably cool. Hashirama had quickly succumbed to tiredness, having been up too early practicing, and passed out. Tobirama had found them a few hours later when he returned from his own training, and he’d smacked Hashirama over the head with a scroll for drooling on one of his favorite books. But then he’d huffed and sighed and helped them look, and almost managed to hide his smile.

Hashirama hadn’t realized that Tobirama remembered as well.

And in remembering that, another memory slips into place. Kawarama’s grave, freshly filled, his own cheek aching from his father’s punch. The taste of anger like copper on his tongue, tangled up with grief and bitterness and the scent of freshly-dug earth as it was shoveled into the graves. He’d said words that his father would have beaten him for, but…

There had been a small, narrow back before him. Tobirama had stepped between him and their father, arms outstretched, and made the only excuse their father would accept. And after seeing that—

_Tobirama, Itama…I will not stand by and watch the two of you die a hollow death._

He’d thought that, then. Thought that and then held it dear, right close to his heart. But when did he let it go? When did his peace become something bigger than lost little brothers and the grief of a fresh grave? When did it change from two boys tired of war, wanting to change the very meaning of being a shinobi, into the desperate desire for Madara to walk the same path?

Hashirama’s peace isn’t for Madara. It isn’t even for the Senju as a whole. It’s for the ten-year-old boy who stepped in front of their father to protect Hashirama from his own words, who stood dry-eyed before the casket but still mourned when he was alone.

Kawarama and Itama were the catalysts, but Tobirama is the reason. Tobirama, as sharp-edged and beautiful as a sword, with a mind like no other and a heart he so easily wounds to keep everyone safe. Who always puts others before himself, who never stumbles, never looks back. Tobirama, his little brother, too wise, too kind, forever ready to protect, and Hashirama sees it now where he might not have before. Everything Tobirama does is to protect those he loves, and even if he goes about it in a different way than Hashirama, even if he makes weapons instead of healing, or steps forward to fight instead of holding back, he’s never meant it the way their father did. Tobirama fights to save, while Butsuma fought to avenge, and the difference between them couldn’t be greater.

“Hashirama?” There's a light knock on the door, and when Hashirama makes a sound of assent, it slides open. Mito steps through, and Hashirama gives her a tired smile, setting Tobirama’s sketch aside and reaching out. She smiles back, catching his hands in her own and allowing him to draw her close. A kiss is pressed to his forehead, gentle and warm, and Hashirama pulls her down onto his lap with a weary sigh, burying his face in the violet silk of her kimono.

“You’ve stopped being an idiot, then?” Mito asks with faint amusement, smoothing her hands over his hair.

Hashirama adores his wife, he truly does. With a slightly choked laugh, he nods, looking up to meet dark eyes that are full of kindness. “I have,” he agrees. “How did you know I lost my way?”

Mito just shakes her head. “Sometimes you look at your brother, or at me, and sometimes you look through us,” she says simply. “It’s been happening more often than not, of late. I'm glad you’ve dragged your eyes back down to earth, husband.”

Swallowing, Hashirama looks away. He hadn’t realized he was so bad. “So am I,” he admits quietly.

Delicate hands turn his face back towards his wife, and Mito smiles at him. “We love you anyway,” she says warmly, as good as ever at reading just what he doesn’t say. “No matter how much of an idiot you are.”

Hashirama smiles back, because he can't do anything else, and brushes a thumb over the diamond-shaped seal on her forehead. Mito only fights when battles push too close to the compound, but she’s a terrifying kunoichi, the best in her clan, and Hashirama never lets himself forget it. Her support all these years has kept him steady, and between her and Tobirama, he’s never faltered.

Maybe, he thinks a little wryly, it would have been better if he had. There's been too much looking forward, too much focus put on what _isn’t_ , and Hashirama needed something to jar him back to the present.

He’s unspeakably glad it didn’t take his little brother’s murder, given how caught up he was in his dreams.

He’ll still pursue peace, of course. He’ll still do everything in his power to build the village he and Madara dreamed of, but this time, instead of forging ahead on his own, he’ll drag his brother right along with him. With Tobirama at his side, with Mito, perhaps even with Madara, it will be a better peace, he’s sure. Not the coldness and unforgiving constraints of peace for the greater good, but…warm. Gentle. A family’s peace, rather than a world’s. Maybe someday the rest of the shinobi world will adopt it as well, but that isn’t why Hashirama wants it.

His first dream of peace was for his brothers’ sakes, and this time Hashirama won't let himself forget.

 

 

Tobirama sits at a table across from the man who was once his greatest enemy, the bright sounds of life echoing from beyond the garden’s walls, and wonders how they came to this.

He’s no fool. The progression of past events is simple to trace, but…unexpected. From death to peace is several long steps Tobirama had never thought they would take. Not the Senju, not the Uchiha, and yet—

And yet here they are regardless.

“Well?” Madara demands, as impatient as ever, and waves a hand at the scrolls in front of Tobirama. Their lunch dishes have been cleared away to make room for business, and Tobirama will admit that he is far more comfortable with the latter than the former. Madara as an enemy, even one on the verge of becoming an ally, is something he can understand.

Madara the man, who looks at him with dark-sharp eyes, an almost terrifying sort of passion burning inside him, is someone Tobirama can't comprehend.

It’s a little startling, but suddenly, Tobirama can't think of a time when he’s ever looked Madara in the eyes before just a handful of days ago. The Sharingan’s power is doubtless part of the reason, but it’s also the fact that there's never been an opportunity. Madara is Hashirama’s opponent, while Izuna is Tobirama’s, and Tobirama can't think of a time when they ever traded off. There's never been a moment of pause between them, never so much as a sideways glance. Tobirama knows what Madara looks like, but—

Well. It’s surprising to suddenly _know_ the way his brows crease when he’s confused, or the way one corner of his mouth tugs up when he’s fighting a smile. Strange, to see a mostly-former enemy arch a brow at him when he picks the green onions from his miso and snort when Tobirama glares at him for it.

Seeing Madara's own glare sharpening, Tobirama restrains a roll of his eyes and sets the papers aside. “They're…decent,” he allows. “The clan will never agree to limit their numbers, however. Nor will our smiths decrease the amount of weaponry they create. We are shinobi, Madara. If you can't remember that—”

“I can remember it just fine,” Madara huffs, waving his words away in annoyance. “Those were proposed by the elders, and I knew you’d reject them. But the rest is acceptable?”

Tobirama offers him a wry shadow of a smile. “I have no doubt it will take weeks of arguing and many small changes before the majority are happy with them,” he says, “but yes. On the whole, I have seen far worse terms, and technically the Uchiha do come to these talks from a position of power. The Senju will protest, but they will agree to most of it.”

Madara nods, looking satisfied. “That’s all I need. Most of the clan are tired of bloodshed; even if we have to compromise, they won't argue.” Quick fingers re-roll the scrolls, then set them aside. “Thank you.”

Inclining his head, Tobirama lifts his eyes to catch that dark gaze again. “And what did my brother have to say?” he asks mildly. “I assume you informed him I was still alive?”

Freezing, Madara blinks at him in surprise.

This time Tobirama really does roll his eyes. “I'm hardly an idiot,” he says, a touch waspishly. “If Tōka came, she read the letter, and I have no doubt she confronted my brother before she departed. She’s hardly the type to let such a thing go, even if it’s not her business. And if she did that, Hashirama knows my whereabouts. He wouldn’t have let things go this long without contacting you somehow.”

“…We met,” Madara confirms grudgingly, after a long moment of silence. “We talked, and I threw a rock at his head.”

“True friendship indeed.” Tobirama arches a brow at him. “Well?”

Madara gives him a scowl, though his heart isn’t in it. “And he told me you have the ability to bring back the dead,” he says, which is one of the most subtle changes of subject Tobirama has ever heard him manage—not, granted, that that means much. “You tested it out on a cat.”

Tobirama goes stiff, remembering that argument very clearly. He drops his gaze to hide the aggravation that sparks through him, at Hashirama more than Madara, because it’s been one of the very many things they don’t talk about in their relationship. For years now, Hashirama has avoided the matter, and Tobirama has let him. He understands. Death is…an uncomfortable subject.

“Don’t worry,” he says shortly. “I have no intention of using that jutsu except as a last resort.”

He doesn’t need to look up to feel Madara's eyes on him. The Uchiha hums softly in acknowledgement, and then says, “So you murdered someone’s pet to try out a jutsu you don’t even intend to use?”

Indignation sparks, sharp and stinging, and Tobirama jerks his head up. “ _No_ ,” he bites out coldly. “I used the body of a rabbit kept for meat, and recalled the soul of _my_ cat to see if it would work. And once I was sure it did, I released her back into the afterlife.”

But there's no judgement on Madara's face, when he looks. No horror, the way there was on Hashirama’s face. Then again, Tobirama supposes Madara of all people would be well able to understand desperate measures and last resorts, held in reserve just in case all hope is lost. In fact, Madara seems almost…satisfied.

“I thought so,” he says after a moment. “It was meant to be a weapon?”

Tobirama looks away again. “The resurrected bodies are able to regenerate endlessly, and can survive as long as the soul remains bound. They can be controlled, as well, so that even former enemies can become one’s soldiers.”

There's a soft clink as Madara sets his cup aside. “Interesting,” he says, and the tone is suspiciously mild. “But that actually didn’t answer my question.”

Tobirama’s breath catches slightly, no matter how he tries to keep his icy composure. There's a faint shift, and Madara leans forward, pouring them both more tea. Eyes solely on his task, he adds, “How old were you, Senju, when you thought that up?”

Hashirama has never asked him this. Hashirama has never wanted to know.

“I would hardly reveal the details of one of my weapons,” he says, and is thankful it comes out cool as he had intended, rather than shaken.

That gets him another raised brow. “I've noticed how you talk about your creations,” Madara informs him, a bit sharply. “You’re free with their abilities, because the things you invented don’t _have_ weaknesses, not exploitable ones. And you're happy to share their strengths. So I’ll ask you again, Tobirama: was it meant to be a weapon?”

Tobirama meets his eyes without wavering, and stubbornly refuses to answer.

“I’d thought as much,” Madara says, seeming to take it as a response regardless. “If I had the ability to bring my brothers back from the dead, I would do so in a heartbeat.”

For a moment he can't decide whether to be furious or annoyed that Madara can so clearly see everything Tobirama doesn’t want him to. He wavers, but eventually annoyance wins out, and Tobirama sighs, aggrieved, as he picks up his cup again. “It’s not that simple,” he admits with irritation. “There has to be a living sacrifice to bind the soul to, as well as DNA of the person you're resurrecting. And even then, it’s…a half-life, at best. Those called back are good as weapons, but I would not wish a prolonged existence in such a state on anyone.”

Madara appears to consider the implications, and then snorts. “Grave-robbing puts a large damper on things, yes,” he agrees. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” The word is a surrender, breathed out on a sigh. He’s never told anyone before, but Madara is perceptive, even more than Hashirama. Then again, Hashirama was blinded by his own grief, by the misunderstandings between them. Tobirama is well aware that Hashirama thinks he deals in weapons alone, when he creates jutsus. He doesn’t see, but that’s fine, because Tobirama has never explained it, either. “I…Itama’s death was…”

He stumbles over inadequate words and meaningless phrases, cursing himself for his inability to speak, but Madara holds up a hand to halt him before he can drag himself deeper into the mire. The Uchiha doesn’t say anything, simply nods, and it’s his turn to look away.

“A shame,” he offers after a moment, and his half-smile is grimly sad. It makes Tobirama remember that Madara once had four brothers, instead of just one. “If we could truly resurrect the dead, it would solve a lot of problems.”

“And create more,” Tobirama counters, but his heart isn’t in the argument. He more than anyone is aware of that particular jutsu’s drawbacks, all the ways it poses a pitfall to the grieving, the bereft. It’s one of the reasons he’s shared it with no one. Had it worked…perhaps he would have spread it. As it is, only Hashirama and now Madara know.

Madara doesn’t contradict him, which is a miracle in and of itself. He simply inclines his head, and says, “Both clans are going to want guarantees.”

The sudden shift in subjects makes Tobirama frown at him, annoyed. “Obviously. I assume you have a plan, if you're bringing it up?”

“Izuna and I discussed it,” he confirms. “He suggested—”

“A political marriage?” Tobirama offers, amused at the thought, and arches a brow at the man. “If you're planning to be the one to inform Tōka, I would do it from the far side of a very deep canyon. Perhaps dig a grave beforehand as well.”

Madara laughs, surprised, and shakes his head. “Izuna is not quite that stupid. Yet.” He grimaces. “We thought a trade. For the first three months it would have to be the some of the most important clan members, because of the matter’s gravity, and then we could meet to renegotiate terms after that.”

Of all the many things Tobirama had braced himself for, that wasn’t the one he was expecting. It takes effort not to let his brow hit his hairline. “You intend to send _Izuna_ to the Senju compound for _three months_?”

Madara scowls at him, aggravation clear in his face. “Of course not,” he spits. “But Hikaku has volunteered, and he’s second in line after Izuna to inherit, as well as one of our strongest, and with enough leverage on our side…”

Tobirama doesn’t need to be a genius to see where Madara's intentions lie. “You want me to stay,” he concludes. “Surely you're aware that hostages are usually _returned_ after the peace negotiations?”

“And you will be,” Madara retorts. “After three months, when we renegotiate. And you can attend the signing of the treaty, when the time comes, so you can at least see your brother again before the time begins. Would you agree, or should I find a different solution?”

It is…a good idea, no matter how reluctant Tobirama is to admit it. Hikaku’s level head will serve him better among the Senju than Izuna’s sharp-tongued slyness would. At the very least, the Senju won’t be forced to murder him in self-defense by the end of the first day, as they would with Izuna.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose to ease the beginning of what he can already tell will be a spectacular headache, Tobirama inclines his head in a slow nod. “I would agree,” he finally says, and then adds, before Madara can look too eager, “on the condition that you be the one to inform my cousin.”

“How about Izuna?” Madara bargains craftily.

It is, Tobirama will allow, a neat solution. “Acceptable,” he agrees. Tōka won't kill someone she’s interested in for telling her something she doesn’t care to hear. (He hopes.)

Though he plans to make very certain that he’s somewhere she can't find for at least twelve hours after she’s informed. She might know him, but he knows her just as well.

Looking satisfied, Madara settles back, and then says, “Good. Now, I thought it would be best to inform you so you don’t disrupt the peace talks, but I'm definitely going to break Hashirama’s damned nose the next time I see him. Because he’s a bastard who doesn’t deserve to be an older brother, and if you argue I'm going to dunk you in the koi pond.”

Tobirama takes back every nice word he’s ever thought. Madara is an idiot, and he will fully deserve it when Tobirama hurls a cup of scalding tea in his face.


	9. love

Tōka is lounging under the new green leaves of the peach tree in the garden, languidly accepting grapes from Izuna—by hand, since she immediately vetoed his offer to feed them to her (he’s cute, but she’s got a reputation to maintain)—when her little cousin stalks up the garden path, dripping wet and visibly fuming. If his chakra wasn’t sealed, she’s sure every bit of water within a mile would be thrashing.

Giving a low, impressed whistle, she pushes herself up and calls, “Hey, sunshine! Smile! It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

(Being his surrogate older sister is so impossibly rewarding at times.)

Tobirama shoots her a look so poisonous and furious that she can practically feel the grass dying around her. Then his red eyes—currently almost demonic, given the scowl on his face—snap to Izuna, and he levels a threatening finger at the Uchiha.

“Your _brother_ ,” he spits, and then is apparently too overcome with rage to manage so much as another word. He snarls, sounding just as menacing as his summons have ever managed to be, spins on his heel, and stalks into the house, slamming the door so hard behind him that the entire frame shakes.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Hikaku, perched up in the branches above them, releases a low, sharp breath. “Wow,” he says. “Why do I feel like I just faced down death?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tōka dismisses with a wave, flopping back onto the grass. “Tobirama would never get that angry in an actual battle. But that was still _slightly_ impressive—I haven’t seen him that angry since Hashirama turned one of his bookshelves into a tree. With all the books still on it.” She holds out her hand imperiously, gesturing for Izuna to resume passing the grapes over, but nothing comes. A little surprised, she glances over at him and raises a questioning brow.

The expression on Izuna's face is caught midway between disbelief, horror, and wonder. He’s staring at the doorway of the house with wide eyes, mouth slightly open and cluster of grapes dangling forgotten from lax fingers. Tōka isn’t even sure he’s breathing.

“Izuna?” she asks, faintly concerned, and sits up again. There's nothing that she can think of that would have caused this kind of reaction. After all, despite her words to Hikaku, Tobirama does occasionally show _some_ bits of temper on the battlefield, so he can't be entirely unfamiliar with her cousin in a snit. But—

“Oh my _gods_ ,” Izuna breathes, caught between reverent and dismayed. “He—he— _Madara dunked him in the koi pond_.”

Well. That would explain the pondweed decorating Tobirama’s silver hair.

Tōka’s first reaction is offense. Tobirama is, after all, her little cousin, as good as her brother, and Madara is their sort-of-enemy. Logic dictates that she should stand up, find Madara, and wedge something large into somewhere humiliating. Even a few days ago, that would have been her reaction without hesitation.

Now, however, her second reaction quickly overwhelms the first. She hoots with laughter, throwing herself back and giving in to the mirth until she practically _cries_.

From above, barely audible over the sound of her cackles, Hikaku lets out a despairing groan. “He didn’t,” the teenager says, though he doesn’t sound like he believes the denial at all. “He did _not_. Tell me our noble Clan Head did not throw the greatest Suiton user in history into a _body of water_ , wearing suppression seals drawn in _ink_.”

Izuna winces. “Believe me, Madara's done it to me enough times that I can _tell_. That was definitely Madara's handiwork, and it was _definitely_ the pool in our garden. I am completely certain.”

At least it’s a you-aggravate-me-greatly-and-this-is-how-I-express-emotions thing, rather than a revenge-against-the-Senju-by-way-of-humiliation thing, Tōka thinks, pressing her arm over her eyes and trying to quiet her giggles. But, _damn_ , the look on Tobirama’s face—

She loses it again.

(And how strange, really, to laugh like she hasn’t done in _years_ in the company of two Uchiha. How strange, to feel so relaxed in the middle of their compound after being caught staging a breakout of one of their prisoners. How amazing, to look into Izuna's dangerous, treacherous Sharingan eyes and see only admiration, only respect. They’ve been at war so long, forced to fight—

But maybe that’s the answer, isn’t it? They're all of them unwilling soldiers, placed on the battlefield by their history, their pasts, their clans as a whole. By a desperation to survive, an inability to see that the other side is doing the same, and….well.

Tōka has never liked anything less than wearing blinders, and with these ones removed, she feels almost…free.)

Fingertips lightly brush her face, shifting a few strands of dark hair out of her eyes, and the laughter catches in her throat. She opens her eyes, looking up to find Izuna leaning over her, expression caught somewhere between sheepish and appreciative. He clears his throat, but doesn’t look away as he says, “Sorry, you…had something. Grass. There.”

Tōka can't fight a small smile, just a faint quirk of her lips, but she feels…soft. Easy. “Very eloquent, Uchiha,” she comments, and chuckles when faint red stains Izuna's cheeks. He huffs, offended, and the trace of a pout makes her laugh, watching him from beneath lazily lidded eyes. He’s…pretty. Not devastatingly handsome like Hashirama is, or possessing Tobirama’s coldly feral sort of beauty, but…nice to look at. She _enjoys_ looking at him, which isn’t something she allows herself often. Not because being a kunoichi means she can't be a woman, too, but because of who she is.

Always, always Tōka has put the clan’s needs before her own, put her dreams ahead of her desires. And she’s managed, become the Senju’s strongest kunoichi by a wide margin, but frequent battles and even more constant training has left little time for family beyond Tobirama and Hashirama. For that reason, she understands Tobirama’s distance from the rest of the clan, his aloofness. It’s not one she cultivates herself, but—they're warriors. They're weapons made to draw blood and steal life. People fear them, even those they protect. It’s an acceptable price to pay for the power they wield, but disheartening all the same.

She forgets, sometimes, that there's more to her than her naginata and her genjutsus. That a man can look at the muscles in her arms and still admire her face and her humor. That being a shinobi doesn’t have to exclude being human as well.

Sudden impulse makes her lift a hand, and it’s a little heartwarming that Izuna doesn’t flinch. He simply holds still as she ghosts her fingers through his hair. It’s silky, glossier and finer than her own, and immediately falls back into place after her hand has passed. Izuna watches her as she drops her hand back to her chest, smiling lazily up at him, and there's an expression in his coal-black eyes that’s impossibly gratifying. He also doesn’t seem to be breathing, which is even more so.

“Leaf,” she offers in halfhearted explanation, giving him a wink. “Right there. It’s gone now, though, don’t worry.”

He laughs, warm and startled, and holds a grape up between two fingers. One dark brow cocks challengingly, and Tōka chuckles, parting her lips in answer. He touches the very tip to her mouth, fingers not quite brushing skin, and Tōka takes it in her teeth.

“SENJU!” a familiar voice bellows, startling her so much she swallows the grape whole. Hacking, she jerks up, and through watering eyes makes out the figure of Uchiha Madara stomping down the path that her cousin just walked. His face is lobster-red in a way that hints at minor burns rather than simple fury, though there's plenty of that as well vibrating in the air around him. There's also grass in his hair, like he’s been rolling around on a lawn—or, perhaps, knowing her cousin, been _wrestling_ on a lawn.

Somehow, even without chakra, she doesn’t think Tobirama took his dunking graciously. Or peacefully.

Feeling both amused and slightly miffed—because she knows brothers (and little cousins, come to think of it) are instinctively skilled at cock-blocking, but she had thought doing so was a _conscious_ thing—Tōka watches Madara stalk up to the house, slam open the door, and violently kick off his shoes. Half a moment later the door slides shut with another house-rattling thud, and she can hear Madara start yelling. Tobirama doesn’t yell back, but that’s to be expected—Tōka can't remember a single time she’s heard him raise his voice outside of calling orders on the battlefield. When he’s angry, he doesn’t get loud; he gets _biting_.

It’s almost enough to make her pity Madara, except for the fact that he clearly brought it on himself.

“What do you think _that’s_ about?” Hikaku asks curiously, eyes spinning into red and black pinwheels as he studies the house.

“Are you _spying_ , Hikaku?” Izuna sounds delighted. “I knew I’d get through to you someday!”

Hikaku casts him the type of deeply annoyed glance that only teenagers can manage with any regularity. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he says acidly, “that’s my _Clan Head_ in there. I'm not about to let Tobirama kill him. If only because then _you’d_ be Clan Head.”

“I would be a _fantastic_ Clan Head,” Izuna snaps. “Fantastic, okay?”

Derision shifts to pity, and Hikaku rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Tōka snorts, _vividly_ reminded of Tobirama at age fifteen, five times smarter than everyone else and entirely done with adults’ condescending bullshit and everyone demanding he slow down and explain things. That word featured frequently, in various tones of “you're a moron” or “why must you force me to lower myself to your level”. Sometimes even “I really hope your idiocy isn’t contagious”. He hadn’t tried it on _her_ more than once before she cured him of it, painfully, but everyone else was fair game. Hashirama especially.

Sometimes she just has to stop and be awed by the fact that the little punk made it to adulthood without someone murdering him from sheer aggravation. Gods, but he was a little brat as a teenager.

With a slightly nostalgic sigh, Tōka stretches out her legs, then leans forward to hook an arm around one foot. From her left, Izuna makes a sound vaguely like he’s choking, but Tōka pretends she can't hear it, hiding her smirk against her knee. She holds the stretch for a moment, then pushes upright again, letting herself fall backwards and sprawl out in the grass. The sun is warm on her face, starting to descend, and the grass is cool and dense. Her hair is loose, spread out around her, and she can't remember the last time she wore it down so many days in a row. Her topknot is for missions, for battle, and it’s almost jarring to look back and see just how many of both usually fill her days. Peace is strange.

It’s a strangeness she could get used to, though.

From the house, Madara's voice goes up a few decibels, and Tōka huffs out an amused breath. “Should we go make sure they don’t kill each other?” she asks, though she doesn’t really want to move. Besides, Madara has proved by now that he doesn’t want Tobirama dead, and she trusts that he won't kill her cousin because of a little annoyance. Madara is petty, but it’s the kind of pettiness that results in him dunking people who disagree with him in ponds, rather than him slitting their throats while they're relatively helpless.

(Hopefully the ‘relatively helpless’ will be done away with as soon as the peace talks are set. Tōka wants her chakra back, but more than that, she’s getting tired of the pinched look Tobirama wears sometimes, the way his gaze will linger like he’s trying to make out edges and distances. It’s hard to remember sometimes just how much more Tobirama is used to seeing, even beyond his genius. It’s not that she forgets, given how many times his range as a sensor—the best she’s ever encountered, regardless of the clan—has saved lives, but she has a hard time understanding just what the absence of that skill means for him.)

But before she can even start to push herself up again, Izuna says very slowly, “No. no, I actually don’t think we should, because I have a _better_ idea.”

Hikaku yelps, flails, and in a rattle of branches and a shower of leaves falls right out of the tree. Since he’s a shinobi, he’s up again in a minute, even though his hair has been pulled free of its short tail and is now full of twigs and bits of green.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps. “No, Izuna, _no ideas_. Whatever it is, it’s stupid and suicidal and _I refuse_.”

Izuna makes a miffed noise, sticking his nose in the air and pointedly turning away. “Fine,” he says primly, plucking Tōka’s hand off the grass and raising the back of it to his lips. He’s smiling faintly, eyes full of a more mischievous challenge and a very clear dare. “You're not required anyway, Hikaku. I'm sure the stunning Lady Senju will assist me, since _she’s_ not a stick in the mud.”

“When it comes to your ridiculous schemes, being a stick in the mud keeps me alive and out of whatever warpath you eventually set your brother on,” Hikaku retorts. “ _Lady Senju_ hopefully has the good sense to just beat you unconscious before you can drag her into anything idiotic.”

Tōka raises an eyebrow at him, then levels Izuna with her flattest look. “Explain.”

Izuna smirks. “Your cousin and my brother are a lot alike,” he says, feigning casualness. “Both stubborn, powerful, leaders burdened with painful pasts, willing to put their own desires aside for the sake of family…”

Hikaku groans and starts thumping his head against the tree trunk.

(Melodrama, it seems, is another of those universal teenage prerogatives.)

“Why are you making them sound like the leads in a bad romance novel?” Tōka asks, unimpressed.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to just lock someone in a closet with someone else and see what comes out of it?” Izuna wheedles. “This could be our _chance_.”

“My brain is dying,” Hikaku complains, “just from _listening_ to you.”

Tōka’s eyebrow goes up another level. “In a closet,” she repeats dubiously. “Tobirama. And _Madara_. Just to point out the most obvious flaw in all of this, I can't think of a single closet in all of existence that could hold both of them when they didn’t want to be there. And don’t say they would want to,” she adds as Izuna opens his mouth. “Or I’ll have to assume that you haven’t met either of them before.”

Izuna looks disappointed, but not deterred. “They _could_ , though,” he defends. “They really are similar.”

“So are Tobirama and Hikaku, but I don’t see you pairing them up.” Tōka frowns at him. “If this is just an opportunity to rile your brother…”

“Finally, someone shows _sense_.” Hikaku narrows his eyes at the other Uchiha. “That’s totally what this is about, don’t try to deny it, Izuna.”

The man scowls at both of them, crossing his arms petulantly. “It is _not_ —well, it is,” he admits when Hikaku makes a noise like his head is about to explode. “But it would be _funny_. You have to admit that at least, Hikaku.”

Tōka groans and kneads at her forehead. “You're lucky you're so cute,” she informs Izuna, and shakes her head. “I am as fond of teasing my cousin as anyone, but this will only end in disaster. Besides, the only thing Tobirama’s ever had a crush on is a sword, or maybe a particularly shiny new jutsu. He doesn’t let _anyone_ get that close unless they're family, and that’s out for the obvious reasons.”

For a long moment, Izuna hesitates, clearly searching for a decent argument. Then he asks carefully, “Would you say Tobirama treats Madara like family right now?”

The idea is so ridiculous that Tōka scoffs. “Of course not.”

“And yet he let Madara get close enough to chuck him into a pond.” Izuna smiles, edging towards smug. “Also, I _know_ Madara doesn’t see Tobirama as family, and was relaxed enough around him to apparently get a cup of tea tossed in his face.”

“They could just be getting closer to being _friends_ ,” Hikaku points out, but from the despair edging into his expression he already thinks the whole conversation is lost.

Tōka is still not convinced. Not in the least. She knows her cousin. But since the reality of the situation isn’t dissuading Izuna, she switches gears. “Izuna. Think this through. If— _if_ —my cousin and Madara have any sort of non-platonic feelings for one another, and you push them together, they're going to kiss. They're going to date. They're eventually going to get naked together and have _sex_. _Together_.”

As she expected, Izuna blanches chalk-white and his expression turns queasy. With a low, wounded noise he clamps his hands over his eyes, scrubbing like he’s trying to remove the images from his retinas. “ _No_. Why would you _say_ that? Why would you even _think_ of that? Aargh.”

Hikaku takes one look at his clansman and turns to Tōka. He pulls himself up onto his knees, claps his hands together, and bows over them. “Teach me, master,” he intones solemnly, and Izuna whines pitifully and flails a hand at him without removing the other from his face.

“ _Monster_ ,” he complains. “You base _traitor_. I’ll have you thrown in the cells, asshole, just see if I won't!”

Tōka gives in and laughs so hard it _hurts_.

 

 

One of the things that Madara shares with Hashirama is, it seems, his lack of acknowledgement in regards to boundaries.

Because he’s used to his idiot older brother barging in on him at all moments, Tobirama just sighs when he hears the door of his room crash open. He doesn’t turn to face the intruder, but carefully finishes stripping his kimono shirt off.

“Yes?” he asks coolly. “Can I help you, Uchiha?”

Madara splutters wildly. “You—you—you— _why are you getting undressed_?” he shrieks.

At that Tobirama does turn, fixing Madara with the drollest look in his admittedly expansive arsenal. “Because _someone_ ,” he bites out, “decided to throw me into a _pond_. I am wet, so therefore I must change.” Pointedly, he reaches for the fly of his pants, and Madara gurgles something and whirls around to stare at the wall.

“Have you no _modesty_ , Senju?” he complains heatedly. “In addition to no sense?”

Tobirama growls, stripping out of his pants and throwing them over the windowsill to hopefully dry in the sun. While he hardly minds water—it was one of his few self-indulgences as a child, going swimming, and still remains that way now—he _does_ mind getting tipped into a fish pond for disagreeing with Madara's opinions. Given that, he feels no remorse in shoving past Madara in only his soaked underwear as he heads for his cousin’s room. It’s not as though a shinobi’s life encourages a sensitivity to nudity or anything approaching shame.

“I have more sense than you would even know what to do with,” he snaps, ignoring Madara's wordless snarl of outrage. “Punching my brother, especially at a _peace talk_ , is the height of stupidity.”

“He deserves it!” Madara snaps back. “And _where the hell are you going without clothes on_?”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “The maid took my other clothes to wash them. Tōka and I are of a height, so I'm going to borrow some of hers.”

Madara makes a noise like a tea kettle boiling over. “You're going to wear a _dress_?”

“Would it matter if I did?” Tobirama checks Tōka’s closet, then snags one of her looser sleeping yukatas and tugs it on. He strips off his nearly see-through underwear and pulls the robe fully closed, tying the obi as he turns to face the other man. Madara's face is flushed, though Tobirama is willing to write most of that off as the heat of the tea and his anger in equal measure.

There's a long moment as Madara obviously gropes for something cutting to say. Clearly unable to find it, he finally spits back, “You don’t have the _figure_ for it!”

Tobirama can't help it. He snorts, barely managing to hold back his laughter, and has to turn away again so Madara doesn’t see the amusement on his face. “I'm crushed,” he deadpans. “Your words wound me deeply, Uchiha.”

“You’re _impossible_!” Madara snarls, throwing his hands up. “And about Hashirama, too! He’s an idiot and a fool and—”

“And my _brother_.” The flare of annoyance helps squash Tobirama’s mirth, and he glares at Madara. “Sure you of all people can understand what I mean when I say that, Madara.”

There's another struggle for words, and then Madara sighs aggrievedly, raking a hand through his wild hair. “I…do,” he admits, though it’s entirely reluctant. “I understand, but…”

Tobirama stares at his bent head for a moment, then rolls his eyes—mostly at himself—and heads for the kitchen. “We never finished our tea,” he offers. “Would you like another cup?”

“Are you going to throw it at me again?” Despite his sour words, Madara follows, and settles at the low table as Tobirama puts the kettle on the stove and turns it on.

“That depends,” Tobirama says mildly. “Are you going to keep threatening my brother?”

“…No.” Madara crosses his arms, looking away with a grimace. “But I wished to speak with you about something.”

Expecting this to be yet another rant on Hashirama’s faults—which, admittedly, Hashirama does have, if not in quite the volume that Madara likes to imagine them—Tobirama sighs and sinks down across from the other man, folding his arms over his chest. “Yes?”

Taking a deep breath, Madara rubs his long fingers over the bridge of his nose—a habit when he’s gathering his thoughts, Tobirama has noticed. “Just—try to picture what I tell you, and don’t interrupt. Can you do that?”

Tobirama’s curiosity has always been his downfall. He inclines his head, waiting, and the Uchiha regards him narrowly for a moment as if judging his sincerity before nodding. “All right. You love your brother, yes?” At Tobirama’s quiet scoff he waves a hand. “Yes, yes, I know. Fine.”

Another breath, and then Madara says very softly, “You love your brother. Picture him old. Picture him with children, and grandchildren, in a garden somewhere. Picture that wife of his, happy and smiling. Picture them laughing, and the lines on their faces are from joy, not grief. The garden’s gates stand open. There's no guard; there's no need for one. From beyond the walls, you can hear people—many, many people. They're happy, too, but they don’t matter. Look at your brother and his family, at his children who have children of their own. There's no hate in them, no anger, no fear. What does that look like to you, Tobirama?”

His throat shouldn’t feel tight. His chest shouldn’t ache. He shouldn’t be able to see that image so clearly, not when it’s only a daydream, inspired by a former enemy’s words. “A fantasy,” he says, and means it to come out short, sharp, cold. It rasps in his throat instead, sticks on his tongue, doesn’t want him to dismiss the image so easily. “A particularly weak genjutsu meant to distract me.”

Madara laughs. It’s short and pained, but there's an undertone of hope to it that’s like nothing Tobirama has ever heard before. “Maybe,” he agrees, and the word emerges soft. “But to me, that’s peace. That’s all I've ever wanted for Izuna, or my other brothers. That’s what I've clung to since I was a child, Tobirama. I thought you of all people would be able to understand why. It’s not Hashirama’s peace, for the greater good. It’s selfish, because I'm a selfish man. But don’t you want to see it, someday?”

There's no possible way to say no, no chance that Tobirama would—but then, Madara already knew that. He knew just what effect his words would have before he started speaking. After all, when it comes to what they would do to make their families happy, or to ensure they survive, they're very much alike. But rather than saying that, Tobirama keeps his silence.

As with his question about Edo Tensei, Madara seems to take it as affirmation regardless. He nods, apparently satisfied, and looks down.

The kettle is boiling. Tobirama takes a breath that he’s very careful not to let shake, then rises to his feet and heads towards the stove, turning off the heat and then laying out everything required. Even as he measure out the powdered tea, though, he can't quite manage to tear his thoughts away from Madara's words, from the image of Hashirama and Mito, smiling and wrinkled with their heads bent together and laughter around them. It…stings. Aches like a muscle overstretched in an unfamiliar exercise, and Tobirama has to stop, leaning against the counter as he stares blankly out the window.

He had never thought of it quite like that, even when he intellectually knew what Hashirama meant when he spoke of peace. He’s never _felt_ it before, like a longing, like a _loss_. As if the world is somehow lesser right now, for the unlikelihood of that vision coming to pass. Hashirama old is something he has never contemplated, and that seems…painful. Sad.

It’s easy, like this, to understand the depth of Madara's fury and madness when Izuna lingered on the edge of death. The loss of that _possibility_ , even the smallest chance of it—it’s enough to break even a strong man.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Tobirama finishes whisking in the tea, then sets the cups on a small tray and carries them out to the table. He’s silent as he sets Madara's in front of the man, and the Uchiha seems content to let him be. From outside, through the open window, Tobirama can hear Tōka laughing, bright and mirthful, without the sardonic edge that all too often colors her laughter. He smiles to himself a little, and closes his eyes. Without Madara's prompting this time, he thinks of that sound enduring, of hearing it again. Of Tōka laughing until she’s bent and worn but never frail, raising hell and giving no quarter and still painting her lips heart’s-blood red just because she can. Of her _surviving_ , when he’d never allowed himself to contemplate it before.

Shinobi don’t survive into middle age. Tōka is thirty, and that’s already beyond the average. To give her a chance to live, to give Hashirama that chance, to see Mito's firstborn, or grandchildren, or—

For that, he can believe in peace. For that, he can fight for it.

Across the table, Madara hums as though agreeing, and Tobirama raises his head to find pitch-black eyes lingering on him, full of something that looks like gratitude, like approval. “You understand,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Holding his gaze is still strange, still rare. The Sharingan was one of the first things Tobirama learned to fear, and to have that fear banished in the space of a week—well. He supposes he’ll get used to it. Inclining his head, he focuses on the steam drifting lazily from his cup, and keeps his silence.

“You’ll stay?” Madara asks. “The three months? I think with groundwork, peace will be simple. The village—that will follow shortly. All the clans need is a little bit of certainty, and together, our families can provide that. You and Izuna, Hashirama and I—I have faith that it will work.”

Many, many times Hashirama has told him to have faith. Never before has Tobirama truly understood those words. He’s not one to rely on hopes, or to base his expectations on anything but the harshness of reality. But apparently this is a day for firsts, because locked away under his breastbone is a small, tight knot of _something_. It feels light, buoyant, but fragile. Delicate. Tobirama will keep it locked away until it’s stronger, hoarded and nurtured, fed scraps the way he once tamed a feral cat. And when it can finally endure the cold light of day—well. Who knows?

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he nods. “I will. And after, if it’s needed. My brother can construct a village quickly, thanks to his Mokuton, but he has no head for planning. Or architecture. Or logistics.”

Madara huffs out a laugh at that, sounding reluctantly amused. “We drew plans once,” he admits. “In the sand, with sticks. Your brother had three barbeque restaurants and a bonsai garden on every street. I’d forgotten that.”

That sounds very like his brother. Tobirama rolls his eyes, glancing up to catch Madara smiling, just a little, with his eyes gone distant. It’s the first time Tobirama has gotten the opportunity to study him without propriety driving his gaze away, and he takes the chance, studying the sharp chin and oval face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair falls over his right eye, thick and so dark it bears hints of blue in the sunlight.

He’s handsome, Tobirama realizes with some surprise. It’s not really something he’s ever had a reason to contemplate before, but it’s true. And…interesting, perhaps. Tobirama hasn’t quite decided yet.

He drops his gaze to his tea again, studying the pale green liquid as it shimmers, and then closes his eyes and simply breathes. Right now, sitting here in the silence with the sun warm outside and the air between them companionable, he doesn’t need to do any more.


	10. the breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently angst is easy to write, but the resolution thereof is complicated enough to make my brain hurt. Or something. Just—these idiots. They're the best. And the worst. And I have had way too much coffee, but hopefully this is still at least vaguely coherent. 
> 
> ~~Yay for realizations! Madara, have a cookie.~~

 “Are you sure this won't make your elders go into hysterics?” Tōka asks dryly, watching Hikaku carefully wipe the seals from the tenketsu point on her arm. “Don’t get me wrong, I'm happy to have my chakra back, but if it’s going to cause problems…”

“Madara's pretty good at out-shouting them, so I wouldn’t worry,” Hikaku answers absently, squinting to make sure he’s removed all the ink. “Besides, you're not really hostages anymore, now that the Senju have agreed to peace talks. You're just leverage, and the better we treat you, the more the Senju will be honor-bound to concede.”

Politics give Tobirama a headache, no matter how good at them he can be when he puts his mind to it. He snorts softly, turning away from his cousin to look out over the compound. With the seals gone, and the ones on the house deactivated, it’s like the world has finally come back into focus. He can sense the chakra of every person and seal for miles, can pinpoint emotions by their signature’s fluctuation, and it’s like stepping out of the darkness at long last and into a world of light.

“Oh, stop it, little cousin,” Tōka chides without glancing at him, tugging her hand free of Hikaku’s hold and flexing her fingers. “We all know you hate idiocy, but give it a rest.” A flicker of power, like a wine-dark spark, and wind whirls around her hand, curling into her touch as if it’s a pet. She smiles, soft and happy, and the expression makes her already lovely face into something breathtakingly beautiful.

From his seat on the edge of the porch, Izuna makes a sound like he’s choking on his own tongue and wobbles dangerously, almost tumbling to the ground.

Tobirama raises a judgmental eyebrow at the other man, but says nothing. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and tips his head faintly, stretching out his senses. Looking across distances like this is easier when he’s touching the earth, but with the sun on his face and a whisper of warm breeze flowing past him, he’s too content to move. He reaches, stretches, taking in the faint flickers of a handful of animal summons, the closely-gathered knot of refined chakra that indicates a patrol. Yamanaka, Tobirama thinks, considering, before he moves on.

“Everyone’s safe?” Tōka asks quietly, voice soft enough that he could ignore it if it were going to break his concentration. As it is, he waves a hand at her, asking for patience, and doesn’t waver.

The Senju compound is like a bonfire at night, each chakra signature amidst the blaze familiar and steady. Tobirama picks out Hashirama’s most easily, then Mito's, and then finds the handful of children he knows well, and after them the other shinobi. There are no flares of power that would mean an attack, no flickering lives that would mean a shinobi about to die. Just calm, and Tobirama lets out a slow breath of relief. He knows Hashirama would protect the clan with everything in him, that Mito would hardly put up with an enemy on her doorstep, that the others are strong and steady and dependable. Still, without being there, with his chakra sealed away, Tobirama can't know what's happened, and it’s been a constant worrying itch at the back of his mind for a full week now.

“They're fine,” he answers, opening his eyes and meeting Tōka’s hawk-like amber gaze. “Mito is aggravated, but that’s hardly anything new.”

Tōka snorts, but before she can say anything Hikaku makes a disbelieving sound and holds up his hands. “Wait just one second,” he says incredulously. “You mean you can sense what’s happening in the _Senju compound_ , all the way from here?”

“And you can even make out _emotions_?” Izuna adds, just as dubious. “You're bluffing.”

“Not really,” Tōka answers, lazily amused. “Tobirama, that little brat who kidnapped you the other day—where is he now? What’s he doing?”

Feeling a little like a trained monkey, Tobirama fixes her with an unamused stare. He gets an impatient wave in response, so he just sighs through his nose, focuses briefly, and answers, “He’s four streets away, with his mother, and he’s excited. She is amused, but also determined and a little wary.”

“Find Kasumi,” Izuna orders. “The kunoichi with the burn scar, who’s always guarding you.”

Tobirama remembers her chakra signature from when he first arrived, and it’s easy enough to pinpoint her location in the forest, surrounded by several other Uchiha, but because he is not actually a trained monkey, he simply glares at Izuna and crosses his arms over his chest, unwilling to play along.

Because she’s never been one to indulge his pique, Tōka unsubtly elbows him in the ribs. “Go on, tell him. Show off just what a massive nerd you are.”

“There is nothing nerdy about being a sensor,” Tobirama bites out. “It is an intensive skill originally perfected by the Uzumaki Clan, with—”

“Yes, yes.” Tōka cuts him off, looking bored. “Fine, being a sensor isn’t nerdy, but memorizing minor fluctuations in people’s individual chakra signatures definitely is. Where is she?”

Seeing that he’s not going to win this argument—one they’ve had several times already—Tobirama growls at her, but answers, “By the falls of the Nakano, with a patrol of five other shinobi, all Uchihas. There's a group of Inuzuka on the other side, but no one is fighting. Any more tricks you want me to do?”

“Sure. Stop being a prissy little brat,” she says with a bright smile, and pats him on the head. “Good boy.”

“You're a terrible person,” Tobirama informs her, batting her hand away. “I hope all of your dates end in disaster.”

Hikaku snorts softly, dragging them back to the original conversation. “I knew you were a sensor, but I didn’t realize anyone had a range like that,” he comments. “It’s natural?”

“I assume it’s rather similar to activating the Sharingan,” Tobirama says, and the notion is enough to draw his interest. He’s always been fascinated by the Sharingan’s abilities, as well as what’s needed to awaken it in its various stages. “When I don’t concentrate, the ability is muted, narrower, but focus widens my range considerably.”

Izuna looks interested as well, and hums thoughtfully, considering the matter. “Except that once the Sharingan is deactivated, our vision goes back to baseline normal for a shinobi,” he counters. “What you're talking about is a constant awareness. Damn it, I want that! Madara was always sneaking up on me as a kid.”

With a chuckle, Tōka stretches out her legs and leans back against one of the beams beside the stairs. “Tobirama did that, too,” she says, amused. “It drove me nuts of _years_.”

“I remember that,” Tobirama says icily. “I also recall that your response was to attack me in my sleep and tie a bell around my neck.”

“Out of love, little cousin,” she assures him, though her grin rather takes away from the sincerity of it. “I didn’t want to gut you by accident if you surprised me while I was holding my naginata.”

Snice he’s heard this argument before and it didn’t convince him then, Tobirama rolls his eyes. Tōka just laughs, warm and wicked, and grins at him like a smug cat.

“Are we interrupting?” a familiar voice asks carefully, and Tobirama looks up, offering a faint smile to Kagami and his mother. The little boy waves back enthusiastically, tugging away from Aya’s grip on his hand to throw himself at Tobirama.

“Tobi, Tobi!” he says brightly. “You're still here! Hi, Hikaku! Hi, Izuna! Hi, scary lady!”

Aya makes a soft sound of dismay, but before she can berate her son, Tōka laughs. “Hi, brat,” she answers, grinning. “I think I like you.”

“Oh, would you look at that,” Hikaku tells Izuna dryly. “You’ve got competition.”

“I do not!” Izuna squawks. “Look at him, he’s obviously got a crush on Tobirama, not Tōka!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, ignores the bickering pair, and says over the sound of their argument, “You're not interrupting anything. Good morning, Uchiha-san.”

“Call me Aya,” she corrects, approaching to set her basket on the edge of the porch. “It will be less confusing for everyone that way. Kagami, if Tobirama is all right with you clinging, that’s fine, but the moment he asks you to move, listen to him, all right?”

Kagami pouts a little, but pulls back enough that he’s sitting in Tobirama’s lap rather than attached to his chest like a limpet. “’Kay,” he huffs, but perks up again a moment later. “Kaa-san and I made onigiri that look like cats! We brought you some so that we can all eat them together, like a picnic!”

“I have enough for everyone, if you’d all like to join us,” Aya agrees with a smile. “Izuna, I have those salmon ones you like as well.”

Izuna breaks off mid-complaint, looking up from where he has Hikaku in a headlock. “You're amazing, Aya,” he says fervently. “I could eat nothing but your cooking for the rest of my life and die happy.”

“And you're a suck-up,” Hikaku accuses, wriggling free with a few well-placed jabs of his elbows and immediately heading for the basket. “Leave my aunt alone.”

“Aunt-in-law,” Izuna reminds him pointedly, scrambling up to follow right on his heels. “Back off my salmon, you little bastard. I know that’s what you're aiming for, don’t think I can't see that evil glint in your eyes.”

With the deftness of practice, Aya neatly removes the basket from Hikaku’s grasp, stepping around to place it between Tobirama and Tōka. “Kagami, why don’t you hand them out?” she suggests. “You were the one to shape them, after all.”

Kagami brightens at that, bouncing over to dig through the contents. He comes up with a slightly lopsided onigiri and immediately presses it into Tobirama’s hands. “This is my best one,” he says proudly. “I made it just for you. It’s Hime, see?”

“Thank you, Kagami,” Tobirama says solemnly. “It’s almost too nice to eat. And it looks very much like her.”

The little boy beams, then turns away to offer Tōka another cat-shaped rice-ball.

“You might not get away without taking that kitten home with you,” Aya tells him, looking faintly long-suffering, but also rather amused. “I haven’t seen him so enthusiastic about something in a long time. He keeps insisting that she’s going to be your perfect ninja partner, and that the two of you will be amazing cat-ninjas together.”

Tobirama can't fight a chuckle at the image. “He’s a bright boy,” he say. “I'm sure he’ll make an excellent shinobi when he’s older.”

“I think you're helping,” Aya confides, smiling at her son. “Several of the older children were picking on him, because he’s always lost in his games and dreams, but since he met you he hasn’t let it bother him as much. He even stood up for himself the other day. It’s a relief, honestly.” She shakes her head a little, then turns to Tōka, who’s been watching them appraisingly, and dips into a polite bow. “I'm Uchiha Aya. Thank you for your patience with my son.”

Tōka glances at the little boy, currently arguing with Izuna over which onigiri he gets, and snorts. “Senju Tōka,” she returns, bowing as well. “And thank you for putting up with my grumpy cousin.”

Tobirama gives an offended huff, but both women ignore him. Aya just inclines her head, and says, “Tobirama mentioned that you're skilled in taijutsu. I'm not sure how much longer you have here, but if you have the time, I would love to spar. Taijutsu is my specialty.”

As is entirely to be expected, Tōka’s eyes light up. “Any time you like,” she answers promptly. “I've always been interested in the Uchiha style. It’s very different from the one I learned. If you don’t have somewhere to be, we could try it after we’ve finished eating?”

“I would be delighted,” Aya answers, and her eyes are bright as well. “That would do perfectly.”

This will either set the stage for peace or rocket them back into an all-out war. Tobirama slides to the right a bit, just to make sure he’s out of range if one of them decides to start the match early, and ends up with a child in his lap again before he can so much as blink.

“When are you gonna come see Hime again?” Kagami wants to know. “I think she misses you!”

“Soon,” Tobirama promises. “Tōka and I will be leaving for a few days, but I’ll try to see her before I depart.”

Kagami stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed, and then reaches out to grab onto Tobirama’s collar. “You're coming back, right?” he demands. “You're not leaving forever, are you, Tobirama?”

Even at the age of six, Kagami is likely far too familiar with people leaving and not coming back. Even though the thought is faintly painful, because Tobirama remembers all too well how Itama and Kawarama reacted when a friend failed to return, Tobirama smiles at the boy, smoothing a hand over his feathery curls. “I'm coming back,” he says gently. “For my clan to make peace with yours, I need to be here, so there's no way I won't return. You’ll wait for me?”

“Yeah,” Kagami promises solemnly. “Then you can teach me that awesome jutsu you used on Izuna, so I can beat him too.”

Tobirama freezes, torn between the desire to laugh and the knowledge that that reaction is not in any way appropriate. Before he can choose, though, there's a loud snort from the path, and he looks up to find Madara standing there, brows raised at the six-year-old.

“I won't object, I promise,” he says dryly. “It would only do Izuna's ego good, I'm sure.”

“Madara!” Izuna protests, head jerking in their direction. “I'm not entirely sure what we’re talking about, but I don’t have an ego!”

At that, Madara scoffs. “Your ego is big enough that it needs a house all to itself,” he retorts. “And stop listening in on other people’s conversations. You’ll never hear anything good.”

Because he is clearly a mature adult, Izuna makes a face at him, then turns up his nose, stalks away, and tries to insert himself into Tōka and Aya’s conversation. For his efforts he gets two sharp glares and a swat on the back of the head from Tōka, and promptly scurries away. Hikaku isn’t any more welcoming when Izuna skulks back to him, but he doesn’t drive the other man away, either.

Madara just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. Tobirama is willing to bet he’s counting to ten. Possible a hundred.

“I'm very glad you made the decision to send Hikaku to my clan,” he says dryly. “I'm not sure I could guarantee Izuna's safety for more than a few minutes.”

“I am constantly astonished that no one has tried to strangle him yet,” Madara mutters, longsuffering. He shakes his head, then looks up to meet Tobirama’s eyes and gestures with the scroll he’s holding. “Your brother agreed to meet on Nara Clan lands three days from now.”

Seeing as Madara just sent the request for peace talks yesterday, Tobirama is a little surprised by the speed of the response. “If Hashirama was lying in wait in the forest to ambush the messenger, I will apologize on his behalf,” he says dryly, accepting the scroll. When he scans the message, he nods approvingly at the clear acceptance of a ceasefire, worded so that nothing is explicitly promised but the outlook for the talks is still hopeful; it’s surprisingly restrained for his brother, and Tobirama is absolutely sure that Mito was the one to write it, even if it’s Hashirama’s signature on the bottom.

Madara snorts. “I didn’t ask. Will the Senju elders cause problems?”

Tobirama considers, thinking of the few he knows. “Most won't,” he allows slowly. “Two might, as they were friends of my father, but Hashirama has been insistent on peace for so long now that this will hardly come as a surprise. The Senju want an end to the fighting just as much as you say the Uchiha do. There might be problems, but only a handful, I believe. We’ve lost too many to hold onto our grudges.”

The Uchiha takes a seat beside him on the edge of the porch, taking the scroll that Tobirama hands back. He turns it over in his hands, gaze distant, and then smirks a little. “I think Nara Shikari will be our biggest obstacle,” he says with amusement. “Her message was angry enough that I thought she was going to follow behind it to stab me. She isn’t pleased about the short notice.”

Tobirama winces, because he’s met the Nara Clan Head. She’s the typical lazy Nara on the surface, but there's a dagger-sharp edge to her tongue, and she’s one of the few people he’s ever met who can challenge him intellectually. The Nara mostly keep out of the clan wars unless forced to fight, but Tobirama has ended up on opposite sides of a mission from Shikari enough times that he’d prefer it never happen again.

“We don’t need her to like it,” is what he says. “As long as her clan is willing to provide neutral ground to meet on.”

“I dare you to say that to her face,” Madara challenges sourly. “And you’ll get the opportunity, since we leave tomorrow. I want to get there early.”

“Just to try Shikari’s patience more?” Tobirama asks, dust-dry, but when Madara opens his mouth he raises a hand to stop the other man’s retort. “No, I'm aware of the advantage it provides. I take it you want both Tōka and I present?”

Madara inclines his head. “I won't risk accusations that I've done away with one of you and brainwashed the other,” he says with a faint grimace. “Besides, Hashirama won't be pleased if I leave you behind.”

Tobirama huffs, crossing his arms and glaring at the Uchiha. “Neither will I. especially since you already agreed that I could see my brother before returning.”

“You can't go, Tobirama!” Kagami suddenly chimes in, looking up from his onigiri with eyes that are abruptly full of clear distress. One slightly sticky hand latches on to Tobirama’s kimono shirt again, and he tugs insistently. “Tobirama, your brother was the one who wanted you to die! You can't see him again!”

“He did _not_ want me to die,” Tobirama retorts, exasperated, and glares when Madara snickers quietly and entirely unhelpfully. “He is my brother, Kagami. Just like your sister loves you, Hashirama loves me. I promise, I’ll be fine.”

Kagami stares at him doubtfully for a long moment, then looks over at Madara. “You’ll protect Tobirama?” he asks seriously.

Madara inclines his head with a solemn expression. “I will,” he swears. “He’ll come back in one piece, you have my word.”

Apparently satisfied with that, Kagami picks up his onigiri again. “Good,” he says decisively. “Oh! Lord Madara, you should marry Tobirama, ‘cause then you’ll always be able to protect him! Kaa-san says that’s what a husband and wife do, and I bet Tobirama would make a really, really good wife, ‘cause he’s so strong and smart.”

Madara chokes, instantly flushing scarlet, and flails a little as he tries to find words. With a groan, Tobirama presses a hand over his own slightly flushed face and protests, “ _Kagami_.”

“What?” the little boy complains. “I'm sure you’d be an awesome wife, Tobirama. If Lord Madara doesn’t want to marry you, though, don’t worry! I can do it!”

“I most certainly _do not_!” Madara squawks. “He’s—he’s— _never_!”

Through the gaps in his fingers, Tobirama can just see the bewildered look Kagami gives his Clan Head. “But Tobirama’s really pretty,” he points out, confused. “He’s way prettier than my sister, and she’s already got a guy who wants to marry _her_.”

“Kagami!” Aya sounds like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Stop that! Change the subject if it’s obvious someone is uncomfortable.”

“I am _very_ comfortable!” Madara snarls aggressively, though he’s still bright red and can't seem to decide where to look. “I am just fine, thank you, it’s a fine subject, because I will _never_ marry him and it’s a moot point!”

“Oh, _really_?”

Tobirama closes his eyes and tries not to groan in despair, because Tōka sounds so languidly amused that this can only end in disaster for both him and Madara. If he’s lucky, maybe they’ll just never speak to each other again.

“Really!” Madara insists, though his eyes are doing that crazy thing Tobirama has only ever seen him do when Hashirama is at his absolute most aggravating in battle.

Tōka smirks like he’s a particularly fat, dumb fish who just took her bait, hook and all. “And just why not? My little cousin is quite the catch. Smart, pretty, skilled, powerful, from a noble family—he’s even still a virgin, if that kind of thing appeals to you.”

“ _Tōka_!” Tobirama hisses furiously, snatching viciously for his cousin as best he can with Kagami on his lap. She just laughs wickedly at him, dancing out of reach behind Madara, who seems to be wheezing for breath past his clear mortification.

“What’s a virgin?” Kagami asks interestedly. “Is it a good thing? And Tobirama’s a virgin?”

Tobirama breathes out through his nose, trying not to let the angry, embarrassed lash of his chakra drown them all. Voice low and dangerous, he says sharply, “ _Change. The_. _Subject_.”

“No, I think I like this one.” Izuna sounds just as gleeful as Tōka as he butts his way into the conversation to give Tobirama a deeply disappointed look. “Really? A virgin? At _twenty-four_? I'm disappointed in you, Tobirama, really, what the hell have you been doing wrong.”

Madara makes a wordless sound that, in anyone else, might classify as a whimper. Given that it’s Madara making it, it’s closer to a growl. “Izuna! You are more than well enough for me to throw you in the pond. Shall we go see if the fish still remember you from last time?”

Izuna snickers, undeterred. “But, brother, don’t you think a political marriage would do wonders for this alliance—urk!”

“We’re leaving,” Hikaku informs the rest of them brightly, face flushed red and one hand locked over Izuna's mouth as he drags him backward. “I don’t think our input is necessary for this conversation, right, Izuna?”

Izuna makes a sad, dejected sound, but doesn’t struggle against the ninja wire wrapped around him. Hikaku waves cheerfully with his free hand, then hauls Izuna off the porch and down the path, Izuna's heels scraping over the stone.

Tobirama cannot _wait_ to see how Hikaku and Mito get along. He’s sure it will be amazing, and will also likely be absolutely terrifying for Hashirama.

Deciding to head any further discussion off at the pass, he tells Kagami, “I'm going to call a few of my summons. Would you like to meet them?” Whatever displeasure they might have at being summoned unnecessarily, Tobirama is more than willing to put up with it if it gets him out of this conversation.

All questions apparently forgotten, Kagami scrambles off his lap, all but vibrating with excitement. “Yes please! Thank you, Tobirama, thank you! I've always wanted to meet a snow leopard!”

“You're very welcome,” Tobirama tells him, allowing the boy to latch onto his hand once he’s on his feet. He shoots Tōka his most poisonous glare, silently warning her that he’s not about to forget her part in his, and heads for the far end of the garden with his shoulders squared and his chin firmly raised.

Tōka, of course, just laughs at him as he goes, and waves cheekily.

Tobirama swears then and there that she will never get a full night’s sleep again.

 

Madara is not entirely certain just how he escapes that complete disaster of a conversation—a muttered excuse about watering his cat may or may not have been involved—but he feels no shame in turning tail and fleeing, because some things simply aren’t okay.

The fact that Senju Tobirama, most powerful Suiton user anywhere, second in command of the Senju Clan, with unparalleled abilities as a sensor and a genius mind that has few equals, did not deny Tōka’s words is one of them. Because now Madara _can't un-hear it_ , and it’s roughly ten thousand times more distracting than it should be.

There is paperwork that he absolutely should be doing, especially since he’ll be away for several days at the very least, but Madara sits at his desk, pen in hand, and can't focus on a single word. His mind shies away from several topics he _could_ think about, and Madara groans, dropping his pen to rub his fingers over his eyes.

Unlike Izuna, who is a cheerful flirt and not unopposed to anonymous encounters just for the fun of it, Madara has never thought of himself as particularly sexual. He enjoys sex, when he has it, but there's never been a driving need for him to seek it out. Moreover, he’s never looked at anyone and immediately thought of them as sexually appealing. It’s simply not how his brain works.

But—

But now that he’s seen Tobirama presented in that light, he can't _stop_ seeing him like that. He thinks of the other day, Tobirama wrapped in a too-small yukata that clung to his wet skin, thinks of Tobirama just this afternoon, sitting with his face turned to the sun, and has to swallow.

 _Inappropriate,_ he berates himself fiercely. _He might as well be a prisoner. He’s under your power, thinking like that is an abuse of that power, stop it, stop it_ —

His throat is dry, his face is hot, and Madara mutters a curse and buries his head in his hands, scrubbing his palms over his face as if to rub away the thoughts. Tobirama is a handsome man, closer to beautiful, and Madara knew that intellectually. He’d looked at him, categorized his face and body as attractive, and looked away, because that’s just how he is. Now…

Madara heard the word _virgin_ , thought _he’s never had sex_ when he met Tobirama’s eyes, and that safe distance was gone.

The little brat’s words helped nothing at all. Marriage? Ha! They’d kill each other within a week. Even if Tobirama is surprisingly reasonable about most topics, and blessedly more logical than his older brother, and—

Madara realizes he’s digging himself into a bit of a hole and mentally backpedals. They're almost-enemies, can't even be tentative friends until peace is assured. Tobirama is all but a captive, even if he’s a willing one, and he’s still an aloof, prissy bastard. An attractive one, granted, and also intelligent and skilled, but still. Madara would prefer not being tempted to strangle his bedmate halfway through the act.

“Never,” he mutters again, if only to himself. It bears repeating, because Kagami was right and Tobirama is _very_ pretty. He’s also…engaging to argue with, in a way that few people beyond Izuna are. And it is absolute, utter madness, but just for a moment Madara wonders exactly how well that passion he’s seen would translate to _other_ things, and he makes a sound of despair, dropping his head to the desk and thumping his forehead against the wood several times for good measure.

His ears are burning, and he growls an oath at himself because he _knows_ that he has all the conversational grace of a brick on the best of days. Right now, facing the thought of spending the next few days in close quarters with the Senju heir, being _required_ to speak to Tobirama and not break into a shouting match to cover his embarrassment—Madara is doomed. It’s as simple as that. Doomed. Doomed, doomed, _doomed_. And then the clan will be doomed, because after Madara's death by self-combustion, _Izuna_ will take over. And, knowing his little brother, Madara suspects that his first order of business will be suggesting a political marriage to Senju Tōka. Being as she is, Tōka will then gut him, skin him, and plant his head on a pike outside her house as a warning to all others who might think to do the same.

Their mother would have loved her, Madara thinks a little wistfully. He hasn’t thought of his mother in a very long time, but…had they met without the boundaries of clan politics to hold them back, she would have taken to Tōka instantly, without a doubt.

Their father wouldn’t have been so pleased, wouldn’t have been pleased at all, but for all that they're family Madara feels little fondness for a man who was too much a soldier to ever be a father. He loved Uchiha Tajima, but he never liked him much. Hunting children, slaughtering them without mercy just to gain an edge over the enemy, using his own children as soldiers and feeling only a need for revenge when they were killed in turn—no. Madara has never shed tears for his father.

That Tajima would disown him for the path he’s led the Uchiha on is just another motivation in seeking peace, because Madara is nothing if not deeply petty.

There's a light rap on the door of his study, and Madara looks up to see his little brother leaning in the opening, dark eyes thoughtful. “All right?” he asks breezily, though his expression doesn’t quite match the tone. “You turned red so fast I thought you were going to rupture something.”

This is _not_ a conversation Madara wants to have. Especially not now. And, knowing Izuna, there will be no getting out of it. Still, Madara fixes his brother with his best glare and asks pointedly, “Hikaku let you go, then?”

Izuna snorts. “Hikaku is currently hanging upside-down in a tree near the training grounds, because he’s a little brat who needs to learn not to remove me from a conversation just as it’s getting interesting. Speaking of which…” He trails off meaningfully, arching a brow, and just to be a little more obnoxious wanders over to perch on the edge of Madara's desk and stare down at him.

“We are _not_ speaking of it,” Madara snaps, trying for firm but unfortunately skidding sideways into pleading. “Leave it alone, Izuna.”

“Did you really think that was going to work?” Izuna asks pityingly. “Really?”

Madara groans and gives up, grumpily rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I had a hope,” he complains.

Izuna laughs at him. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “But Tobirama’s attractive for a Senju, isn’t he?”

It’s amusing that Izuna thinks he has any right at all to say that, considering Madara is fairly certain he caught his brother daydreaming and kissing his own hand last night. Trying to convey this, he arches a judgmental eyebrow at Izuna, who flushes faintly but waves him off.

“No, no, we’re not talking about me right now,” he insists, voice an octave higher than it has been since puberty. “Attractive Senju. Attractive _male_ Senju, meaning not Tōka. Though she is definitely attractive. If you want seduction tips—”

“I am _not_ seducing him!” Madara squawks, flailing. “Izuna!”

His little brother shrugs, smile innocent, though the spark in his eyes is anything but. “We’re heading into a different world,” he says, and the mischief slides away from his face, replaced by contemplative distance. He picks up a paperweight of pressed flowers caught in glass, turning it over in his hands, and adds, “That’s what all of this is about, isn’t it? New opportunities, with the groundwork of hate that’s always been there erased. Having the option to pursue something like this, without anyone calling you a traitor for it.” He looks up, dark gaze intent, and smiles a little. “I—this future that you want, it means a chance to be happy, without having to stay inside the lines that previous generations drew. Maybe I never quite understood that before, but…I think I'm finally getting it.”

And all it took was a pretty Senju kunoichi knocking him over the head and dumping him on his ass. Madara snorts in reluctant amusement, sinking back in his chair and brushing his hair out of his face. He thinks about Izuna's words, and then about Tobirama, calm and at peace with an Uchiha child on his lap, and…

Well. There's nothing there yet. Not really. But…the possibility is hovering around him, in the way the sun turns his hair to liquid silver, and in the warm humor that fills red eyes when a child speaks, and in the weight of his gaze as it falls on Madara.

Just a possibility, but isn’t that what peace is about?

Suddenly, Izuna snickers, pulling him rudely from his thoughts. “Oh man,” he says, grinning wolfishly. “How many hours to the Nara compound? Because you and Tobirama in close quarters, after this afternoon, with nothing but traveling to distract you—do you want some tips? Because otherwise this is going to end in _disaster_ , and I'm going to laugh at you _so_ hard.”

All right, that’s it. With a low growl, Madara bolts to his feet, snatches his brother by the collar of his robes, and hauls him over to the window. Izuna squawks, flails, and curses desperately, but Madara doesn’t care. He tightens his hold on his squirming brother, elbows the window open, and then heaves Izuna up onto the sill and chucks him straight into the koi pond below.


	11. of your soul upon my lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, indeed, the last chapter. I have no desire to write five more chapters of politics and the ramifications thereof—reverse has enough of that for me—so I'm sticking a period here and calling it a happy ending. Thank you so, so much to everyone who’s waited patiently for this. You're fantastic, and I really should have had this up a long time ago. 
> 
> (Also, this was written and edited in a hospital waiting room while I was very distracted, so I apologize for any massive grammar errors/idiotic typos.)

So far from any of the shinobi clan compounds, the path through the forest is quiet and still, the only sound the quiet murmur of voices as the procession of Uchihas and guests moves through the trees. Tobirama would be thankful for the momentary peace, except that the vast majority of _his_ peace comes from the fact that Tōka is a seething silence on his right.

Early morning and a long walk don’t leave her with much good humor, unfortunately.

Since he’s already attempted to give her some space and been snapped at for ignoring her, and then tried to engage her in conversation and been growled at for annoying her, Tobirama subtly quickens his pace, just enough that in a few minutes he’s a good bit ahead of Tōka’s position, closer to where Madara is pouring over a scroll with a distinct scowl. Izuna, walking next to him with his hands in his sleeves, gives Tobirama a bright, cheerful smile and surrenders his spot, heading back towards Tōka with a good amount of enthusiasm.

Tobirama would pity him, except that if he’s truly serious about starting anything with Tōka he should be fully acquainted with her pre-noon personality. He returns the smile with a smirk, trying not to let a flicker of malice slip through, and falls into step with the Uchiha Clan Head.

“You're going to trip,” he warns mildly, stretching out his senses ahead of them, and—oh. That’s both interesting and faintly inconvenient. It does, at least, give him an excuse to escape Tōka for a while.

Madara startles so hard he almost drops the scroll, glances up, and promptly flushes dull red. “Oh, shut up,” he snaps. “I'm a shinobi! I'm a _good_ shinobi. I think I can manage to walk down a road, Senju.”

Tobirama raises an incredulous eyebrow, because he _knows_ Madara has met Hashirama. “My brother proves otherwise,” he points out, and Madara snorts.

“I'm not your brother,” he says, clearly annoyed, and rerolls the scroll with tight, sharp movements. “Though if I was, I’d be prepared to get my nose broken for being an _idiot_.”

Tobirama had been happy to leave this subject behind them. He levels a glare at Madara, and says sharply, “If you break my brother’s nose without provocation, Mito will castrate you with her kanzashi. Cheerfully.”

There's a long pause as Madara digests this, the red leeching from his face to be replaced by a wash of pale green, and he grimaces. “The Uzumaki woman? I thought it was an arranged marriage.”

“Call her that to her face,” Tobirama orders, vastly amused by the thought. “Use that tone. You won't live long enough to say anything else, but it will at least be very entertaining to watch you die.”

That gets him a sour look, but at least Madara is meeting his eyes now. Tobirama is a genius, but he hardly needs to be one to see that Madara has been avoiding him all morning. The easy assumption to make is that it’s regarding the conversation yesterday. It’s hard to blame him, if that’s the case; Tōka is very, very good at embarrassing him, and everyone around him by proxy.

“These are _peace_ talks,” Madara protests. “If your brother’s harpy of a wife—”

Raising a judgmental brow, Tobirama snorts. “Mito is the one who wrote that acceptance letter,” he informs Madara. “She is smart, and cunning, and a better politician than Hashirama could ever hope to be. You may be signing a peace treaty with my brother, but a large portion of the thought behind it will come from Mito.”

Madara looks startled, then thoughtful. Then something like confusion slides over his features and he grimaces. “And she married _Hashirama_?”

Tobirama looks away to hide a smirk. “It was her choice to go through with it,” he confirms.

For a long moment, Madara turns this over in his mind before he shakes his head incredulously. “Fine,” he says, a mixture of grumpy and disbelieving. “Hashirama can wait outside in the hall while the reasonable people talk.” He catches sight of Tobirama’s exasperated scowl and smirks, but their eyes must hold a beat too long. He blinks, flushes again, and determinedly jerks his eyes back to the front as he snaps his mouth shut.

That was very clearly an attempt not to have a reaction, and if Tobirama knows anything about this man by now, it’s that _reaction_ is, for him, generally equivalent to _loud and blustering_. He sighs through his nose, reaching up to rub at his temple, and says very deliberately, “I apologize for my cousin’s turn of conversation yesterday. If it eases your mind, I was the target; any embarrassment you might have suffered was collateral damage, I'm certain.”

If anything, Madara goes redder. “ _We’re not talking about this_ ,” he hisses out, waving his arms in an aborted gesture. “I—you just— _no_!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “You spent the entire morning doing anything you could not to be within twenty feet of me,” he retorts waspishly. “If this is about my proclivities, you may rest assured that just because I prefer men—”

The red shades towards puce, and Madara slaps a hand over his face. “STOP. TALKING.”

Entirely unimpressed, Tobirama closes his mouth and waits.

Looking like speaking is physically causing him pain, Madara grits out, “It’s not. That. Men are fine. But you. Just. Aargh.” He breaks off, kneading his brow, and grimaces. “Can't we stop?” he asks plaintively.

Tobirama is a genius. Perhaps not always with people—perhaps rarely with people, really—but sometimes even he can make leaps in logic and come to something resembling a conclusion. Blinking, he looks at Madara, takes in the way the Uchiha is still unable to make eye contact, the red face, the way he had reacted yesterday and this morning, and asks with a touch of disbelief, “You're _attracted_ to me?”

“What?!” Madara yelps, jerking around. He trips, flails, and only just manages to get his feet under him before he falls. “We weren’t—you— _how is that a logical follow-up to that conversation_?”

“Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I'm unfamiliar with the mechanics of attraction.” Tobirama studies him thoughtfully, dissecting implications, and frowns a little. “I—really?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Madara says stiffly, ignore the sideways glances his clan members are giving them. They are, thankfully, spread out enough that eavesdropping on the quieter parts of the conversation would take effort. “You're a prisoner.”

“Only technically,” Tobirama reminds him, and is startled to find himself—well. Not quite considering it, but assessing the thought, certainly.  He remembers Madara's dark eyes on him, the insight that no one else has ever managed into Tobirama’s thoughts and motivations, and is…startlingly all right with the idea. He carefully sets it aside for later study, and changes the subject, much to Madara's visible relief. “The Nara Clan compound is a little under an hour from here. There's a squad just leaving, and I believe Shikari is leading it.”

Madara's glance is faintly wary, as if he can't believe Tobirama is actually dropping the matter, but he readily takes the opening. “As I would expect.” He snorts softly, and adds, “She’s probably coming to make her displeasure known in person. I don’t know why she’s bothering; that letter was annoyed enough that I'm surprised it wasn’t smoking.”

Given what Tobirama knows of Shikari, it’s not a shock that she’s coming to meet them. For all that she’s a typical Nara in temperament, Shikari is also very forthright. She claims it’s impossibly troublesome to be otherwise. He huffs a sound of quietly amused agreement, and then adds, “It appears my brother and several of my clan are already in residence.”

“ _What_?!” It’s just a little below a shriek, and Tobirama winces as his eardrums protest. He gives Madara a glare, but Madara simply glares right back. “And you didn’t think to _tell me_?”

“I just did,” Tobirama points out, annoyed. “And did you expect anything else where Hashirama is concerned? This is the opportunity he’s wanted since he was a child. Of course he would be eager to take it.”

“He’s _still_ a child,” Madara mutters, looking distinctly unhappy. “An oversized, overly enthusiastic child with no manners and not enough sense.”

Given that that’s one of the better descriptions of Hashirama that he’s heard, Tobirama keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t protest.

“The Nara are closer to the Senju than the Uchiha,” he points out after a moment. “It’s reasonable for them to arrive first.”

The annoyance doesn’t fade much, and Madara mutters something about stones and heads under his breath that Tobirama doesn’t quite catch. It’s probably not much of a loss. Then Madara raises his voice, and adds, “Can you tell if he has any of the clan elders with him?”

None of the Uchiha elders are in this group; Madara had managed to exclude them neatly and without much remorse. Tobirama approves, mostly because they keep giving him nasty, suspicious looks, and extended exposure to such behavior would undoubtedly make Tobirama forget good sense and pull the nearest rain cloud down on top of them. With a soft snort, he looks again, focusing on the familiar flares of chakra that mark his brother and Mito, then a handful of Senju he knows well. There's only one elder among them, and she was never close to Butsuma. Though she’ll likely be wary of the Uchiha after a lifetime of waging war against them, she won't be unreasonable.

“None who will cause problems,” he offers after another moment. Mito feels—different, just a little. Still a contained whirlpool of chakra, spinning in place and tightly controlled, the seal on her forehead a supernova trapped in a bottle, but just—changed. He frowns, wondering what could have happened, and then pulls his attention back to his immediate surroundings.

Madara is watching him, dark eyes narrowed with interest, and Tobirama looks back, holding his gaze. He thinks of conversations over tea, even when they devolve into arguments. Maybe especially then, because Madara is unafraid to match him in a way that few others have ever been. Only family, that Tobirama can think of, and Madara is most definitely not family.

“You are…not unattractive to me, either,” he says before he can overthink things, and looks away so the words come more easily. “I've never indulged in sex because I've never cared to form an attachment like that with anyone before, and one night encounters hold no appeal.”

When he flicks a glance at his companion, Madara looks like he honestly has no idea what to do with that statement. “Oh,” he says blankly, and then quickly grimaces. “I thought we weren’t talking about this?”

Tobirama gives him a judgmental look. “For your consideration,” he says blandly, and abandons the conversation for the safer territory of drifting back to Tōka’s side. Even watching her exchange sneaked glances with Izuna is better than lingering in that particular conversational quagmire.

Of course, in this case he’s leapt from quicksand into a rockslide, because as soon as he’s within earshot Tōka purrs, “Oh my, little cousin. Is that a _crush_ I see forming?”

“It’s not,” Tobirama denies—truthfully, because he’s fully aware it’s not. Just…an idea, with attached possibilities. Certainly not something he ever would have considered before, but.

But he likes the Uchiha Clan as a whole, and Madara is…something to puzzle over. A man with morals like Tobirama’s own, but a much closer connection to his clan. A deadly fighter, a brother, a man who wants peace for the happiness it will bring to those close to him. Tobirama still hasn’t quite managed to shut out that sunshine-warm dream Madara described to him, Hashirama old and at ease with his family around him.

This isn’t a love story. Tobirama has never cared for such things, with their excess of emotion and poor decisions and complete lack of logic on the parts of the characters. This—this is simply a concept, able to be explored, and there will be at least three months of ceasefire in the future in which to explore it. Ideas are something Tobirama is fond of. Ideas are something he can handle. Emotion might be messy and unpredictable, but…

There's a foundation of it laid between them already. Madara has seen him at his most vulnerable, at his weakest, has even held power over him in those moments, and…one abuse. One moment where his grief and anger got the better of him. Beyond that, he never attempted anything. And maybe that lapse of control means he’s not a good man, but then, Tobirama isn’t either. He’s a shinobi. Perhaps the two states aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s certainly difficult for them to coexist.

“Hm.” Tōka sounds carefully neutral, and when he gives her a sharp look there's a touch of humor around her eyes, though he can see worry there, too. “Be careful, little cousin.”

“I could say the same to you,” Tobirama retorts, though it doesn’t come out quite as biting as he would like. He flicks a pointed glance at Izuna, who makes a face at him.

Condescendingly, Tōka pats Tobirama on the head. “The day I need you to look out for me is—”

“Every day?”

“—going to be very disappointing to everyone involved. And don’t make that face. If the wind changes you’ll get stuck like that, and then what will you do?”

“The two of you,” Izuna says with great amusement, “must have been _very interesting_ as teenagers.”

Tōka chuckles, linking her hands and stretching to pop her back. For the sake of his sanity, Tobirama ignores where Izuna's eyes linger. He’s walked in on Tōka in too many compromising positons to truly be horrified by it, but that doesn’t mean he actively wants to know anything about it at all. “Everyone was terrified of us,” she admits easily. “Like that one time, when Butsuma tried to keep me off the frontlines because I was a woman. Or when Tobirama tried to play around with henges and ended up getting stuck as a girl for three months. That was fun.”

Izuna blinks, clearly running this statement through his head a few times, and then looks at Tobirama askance. “You—a girl?”

Unbothered, Tobirama raises a brow at him. “You don’t remember me?” he asks mildly. “How ungentlemanly. In the village with the fountain?”

There's a moment of blank horror as Izuna pales. “You're bluffing,” he accuses, but it sounds weak. “That’s a dirty lie, Senju!”

“There was a woman selling blue roses,” Tobirama counters, and it’s all he can do to hide a smirk. Tōka is about to choke, she wants so much to laugh, but she’s managing not to give in. “You bought one. What was the phrase? ‘This rose is lovely, but it pales—‘”

“Stop!” Izuna yelps, slapping his hands over his ears. “No, no, I refuse to believe that! She was a brunette! She had green eyes! And—and a birthmark! On her—no!”

Tōka wheezes with mirth, covering her mouth to muffle the sound just a moment too late. Izuna spins to glare at her, realization coming into his eyes, and then turns to give Tobirama the dirtiest look he’s capable of. “It _wasn’t_ you!”

“No,” Tobirama admits, smirking at him. “I was just on reconnaissance in the village and saw you.”

Tōka’s arms are wrapped around her stomach, and she’s laughing so hard that it’s silent, just gasps of air. She waves Tobirama off before he can ask if she’s all right, and bats Izuna's hand away when he tries to swat her.

“You're both _terrible_ ,” Izuna complains. “I _hate_ you.”

Tobirama arches a brow at him. “Really,” he says dryly, and Izuna huffs and crosses his arms.

“I'm supposed to hate my in-laws,” he informs Tobirama archly, and then yelps when Tōka sweeps his feet out from under him and dumps him on his ass in the dirt.

 

 

“The two of you,” Nara Shikari complains when they finally reach the compound, where she apparently decided to wait rather than coming to find them. “I should kick you both off my lands and leave you to sort things out on your own. So troublesome.”

Madara is offended, mostly because of the comparison to Hashirama. With a huff, he crosses his arms over his chest and protests, “I have nothing to do with the Senju Clan’s decisions, Nara.”

“And yet here you are, two days early,” Shikari points out dryly, gaze flickering over him, then darting towards the rest of the group. She lingers for a moment on Tobirama and Tōka, standing close to Izuna, and something both thoughtful and calculating crosses her face. She tips her head, and says, “Huh. Would you look at that. Maybe you’ll actually get something done this time after all.”

Madara makes a face at her. “Well?” he demands impatiently. “The sooner we start, the sooner we finish, and the sooner you get your compound back.”

“Believe me, I await the moment with bated breath.” Despite her words, Shikari pushes away from the wall she’s leaning against, waves her shinobi back a few steps, and heads towards a small door set into the stone.

Before she so much as reach for it, though, a blur darts past Madara, slips through the startled Naras, and ducks around Shikari. “Excuse me for a moment,” Tōka says with her sweetest smile, then reaches for the door. The knob turns, it opens inward, and with all her strength Tōka rams it forward.

From the other side, there's a crack, a distinct crunch, a thump, and a muffled scream. “Oops,” Tōka says, entirely unrepentant, and catches the door as it bounces back towards her. She opens it again, more normally this time, and Madara is met with the entirely unexpected sight of Hashirama on the ground, clutching what is clearly a broken nose as blood streams down his face. Tōka smiles at him, all teeth, and adds with bright, cheerful malice, “Sorry, cousin, I didn’t see you there.”

There's only one possible reaction. Madara looks over at his brother, who’s staring wide-eyed. “I reluctantly approve,” he informs him.

“Uh-huh,” Izuna agrees dazedly. “Me too. Isn’t she fantastic?”

“ _Tōka_.” Tobirama pushes through the crowd, looking somewhere between exasperated and longsuffering. He elbows the kunoichi out of the way, then crouches in front of his brother and touches a green-glowing hand to his face. The swelling recedes, the redness vanishes, and the flow of blood stops, and Tobirama asks, “Do you have a bandage with you, brother? I left mine behind.”

There's a moment of utter silence as Hashirama stares at his brother, dark eyes wide. Then, with a muffled sound akin to a sob, he grabs Tobirama and pulls him in, drags him into a tight, desperate hug, clutching him close. Madara is close enough to hear him whisper, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you so much, Tobirama. I never meant it, I swear, I was just angry at myself. I treated you so harshly, and then I _lost you_ —”

“You have never lost me,” Tobirama answers, low and fierce, and presses his forehead against his brother’s shoulder as his arms come up to grip Hashirama’s haori in return. “ _Never_ , Hashirama. You never will.”

Hashirama swallows, his eyes falling closed. He doesn’t ease his grip—if anything he simply pulls Tobirama in tighter. “I could have,” he murmurs. “I thought you were dead, and—don’t leave me again, Tobirama. I know I'm blind and foolish and useless, but you're all the best parts of me. I’d be nothing without you.”

The look on Tobirama’s face is too cautious to be joy, but fierce. Grateful. Full of a careful, deeply-rooted regard that is both a younger brother’s well-hidden worship of an older sibling and the instinctive, automatic love of a man towards the center of his universe. Like a compass to the north, or the sailor to the star that leads home, or the sun to its set path. It will never change, regardless of anything, and Madara has to swallow, because he recognizes it.

This is the reason Tobirama walked to his death, just in the hope that his brother could fulfill his dream. Not for the sake of the dream itself, but for Hashirama as a man. As his brother. As the star Tobirama has always orbited, quietly adoring.

It sits in his stomach like jealousy, but it’s not. Envy, only not so petty as the word implies. Longing, maybe, with an edge of _want_.

What a thing, truly, to have the regard of a man like Senju Tobirama. Even seen from the outside, it’s…captivating.

“I swear,” Shikari mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes. “So goddamn troublesome, all of you. Inside, before I recover my good sense and leave you out here to rot.”

Carefully, Tobirama climbs to his feet, pulling Hashirama up with him. The Senju brothers stand together for another moment, just staring at each other, and then Hashirama pulls Tobirama into another hug, tight but gentle. His dark hair falls around their faces, obscuring them both slightly as he rests their foreheads together, but there's enough visible for Madara to see the small, clear smile Tobirama favors his brother with, the way Tobirama’s hand curls around Hashirama’s elbow in a careful hold.

“I missed you,” Hashirama tells him, sad and regretful. “I've been missing you for a very long time, haven’t I?”

“I would follow you regardless,” Tobirama answers, so bare and honest it almost hurts to hear. Then the solemnity lightens, just slightly, and he adds, “Though I’ll complain about it less if you’d stop being such a fool.”

Hashirama laughs at that, warm and grateful and fond as he leans in, taking another hug. “Lies,” he says dotingly. “You’ll always complain about me. You _enjoy_ it.”

“I do not.” But the denial is halfhearted, even as Tobirama steps back to put some space between them. “Come. Shikari has as little patience for your excess of sentiment as I do.”

Shikari snorts, brushing past the two into the compound. “Very true,” she agrees. “Uchiha Clan, that way. Your rooms are obvious. Senju, Uchiha, tell me when you're ready to start talking. I want you out of my hair as soon as possible.”

“Be polite, Shikari,” a tall blond man reproves, approaching from the main house with a slender redhead by his side. Madara eyes the latter a little warily as he leaves Izuna to oversee the rest of the clan, approaching Hashirama.

“You steal all the joy out of my life, Inoue,” Shikari complains, but lets the blond guide her back towards the house without too much protest. The redhead remains where she is, smiling as Tobirama steps over to her.

“Mito,” Tobirama says, and there's true pleasure in his voice. “You look well.” His red eyes flicker over her, then widen slightly, and he shoots her a startled look.

With a quiet chuckle, Mito places a finger over her lips and a hand over her stomach, giving Tobirama a conspiratorial wink. “Tobirama,” she says, and reaches out for him. He takes her hands, pulling her close to kiss her forehead, and she reaches up to cup his cheek. A glance to check that Hashirama is distracted speaking with an unimpressed Tōka, and Madara just hears her add softly, but with a brilliant smile, “You’ve picked your timing well. If this treaty goes through, our first child will be born to peace.” There’s a brief pause as she studies him, and then she says more seriously, “We were worried. But I see they didn’t cut any chunks off, so you're all right?”

“They hardly touched me,” Tobirama assures her, and Madara has to look away, a flicker of guilt curling in his stomach. He’d been angry, so angry and lost, but he’d still trapped Tobirama in a vision made of his greatest fears. That’s torture, just as surely as the physical type. Maybe they were enemies at the time, but that’s little balm to his conscience now.

Of course, looking away brings his attention back to Hashirama, who’s watching him with a faint thread of wariness mixed with hurt. Understandable, given the way their last meeting went. And—there's still a core of anger, in Madara, at Hashirama’s treatment of his brother. But they're here for peace, and in the face of that the resentment is easy enough to bury.

“Hashirama,” he says with a nod, and allows himself a smile. “I see you fixed that bruise.”

Hashirama blinks, startled, and one hand goes to his forehead where the rock had struck him. Then he chuckles, almost sheepishly. “Oh, right. I was going to keep it, because I thought it would amuse you, but Mito said I couldn’t look stupid when I was representing the clan. She healed it for me.”

Admittedly rather disappointing, Madara laments, though the thought of the small, dainty-looking Mito telling Hashirama that to his face is somewhat entertaining. “It would have,” he agrees, and then looks the other man over and folds his arms across his chest. “I take it you made a decision?”

Hashirama smiles, small but warm and genuine. “I did. Thank you, my friend, for helping me see what I couldn’t, wouldn’t, before. I needed you to open my eyes, and I'm grateful for it.”

Madara supposes that’s enough of a consolation for now. He nods, mostly satisfied, and strangles the little voice that insists Tōka’s punch was well and good, but he should attempt his own. Though he’ll never admit it out loud, Tobirama may have had a point about throwing punches at a peace conference. “I hope you're prepared to read a lot of fine print,” he says. “I have _scrolls_ full of the ridiculousness my clan’s elders came up with.”

The other man winces. “So do I,” he admits. “Only I think you're allowed to reject mine, since you're holding my beloved brother and cousin hostage.”

“The cousin who just broke your nose,” Madara says dryly, just to clarify.

Hashirama gives him a wry smile, laughing a little. “You almost sound like you're surprised, Madara. I'm certainly not.”

To anyone who’s met her and seen her interact with Tobirama, Tōka’s actions aren’t a surprise at all. It’s a little aggravating that she beat him to the punch—literally—but Madara can be content with the results. Still. “You're lucky it wasn’t me,” he informs his friend, leveling a warning glare at him.

To his utter surprise, Hashirama beams, then lunges forward and hugs him hard, lifting him right off his feet. Madara squawks in protest, flailing as he tries to shove Hashirama away, but the gigantic idiot doesn’t even do him the curtesy of _pretending_ to move. “Thank you,” he says in Madara's ear, and the confusion is enough to make Madara stop struggling for a moment. “Thank you for protecting him, even from himself.”

To his horror, Madara feels his face going red again. “Put me _down_ , Senju,” he warns, and is only slightly mollified when Hashirama does as he’s told. Dignity prickling, he smooths down his clothes, giving Hashirama a warning glare, and then turns on his heels, snaps, “Go get ready, idiot!” and heads for the rooms Shikari had directed the Uchiha towards.

To his surprise, Tobirama falls into step with him, leaving Mito to greet Tōka. His steps are steady, even, but Madara can't quite forget their conversation just an hour ago. Especially not when Hashirama’s words felt almost like a blessing.

Three months, if everything goes right. Three months of Tobirama as a guest, rather than a prisoner or political leverage. Madara can't tell if it sounds like forever or no time at all.

As if he can tell the direction of Madara's thoughts, Tobirama pauses, and when Madara turns to look at him curiously, he asks, serious and intent, “Have you considered?”

“For all of an hour?” Madara demands, because snappish is better than embarrassed. “I'm not quite that simple-minded, thank you.”

“Nothing about you is simple, Madara,” Tobirama agrees, and his tone is ever so faintly amused. But his expression sobers slightly, and he turns to look back at the courtyard, where Izuna has drifted over to stand next to Tōka, and Hikaku is bowing politely to Mito. “This will lead to peace,” he says, and sounds so certain that Madara can't help but believe it, too. “All of the clans are tired of war, and even a handful of voices speaking against it will be enough the turn the tides. The Senju and Uchiha will start it, but the rest will follow as well.”

“And?” Madara asks pointedly, though his chest feels tight. A little over a week ago Tobirama couldn’t believe in peace as anything but one of his brother’s dreams, and now he supports it as if he understands.

Tobirama simply looks at him, red eyes and silver hair and the sharp red lines on his face making the angle of his cheekbones into something breathtaking. “And?” he echoes, and that’s amused too. Raising one hand, he frames Madara's cheek, not quite touching. “I'm curious. Tell me, where do you see yourself in that dream of the future?”

Callused fingertips just brush his skin, five points of heat to steal Madara's voice, and then Tobirama pulls away. He turns, looking back, and—

Madara grabs his elbow, pulls him around. Pulls him _in_ , and kisses him, because he can't think of a single other thing to do. Tobirama’s mouth is soft, unexpectedly warm, and when his lips part in surprise Madara wastes no time deepening the kiss, tugging him closer and coaxing him to follow. It startles a moan from that pale throat, a soft sound of interest, and Madara feels satisfaction spike. He brings his hands up, chases the streaks of red up to the corners of Tobirama’s eyes, then slides his fingers into shaggy hair and brushes it back. Their mouths part for air, just a breath before Tobirama pulls him in again, and Madara goes willingly.

Another kiss, lingering and distracting, blanking out Madara's thoughts. He scrabbles to pull together words, but all that manages to come out when they part again is, “Are you trying to manipulate me, Senju?”

Tobirama snorts softly, fingers tightening on Madara's hip, and leans closer to put his mouth right next to Madara's ear. “I would prefer to think of it as a brief example of the possible benefits.”

It’s manipulation, pure and simple. Luckily, Madara is very much in the mood to be manipulated. He turns them, shifting back a little further into the shadows so they won't be interrupted, and reels Tobirama in with the hand in his hair. “I'm still considering,” he informs Tobirama. “How about you convince me this isn’t a terrible idea.”

That gets him a huff of laughter. “Of course it’s a terrible idea,” Tobirama says. “We’re going to kill each other within a month. Either I’ll drown you when you try to throw me in the pond again, or you’ll set me on fire the next time you lose your temper at me.”

“So it’s always going to be my fault, is it?” Madara asks, and tries to make his tone sour, but doesn’t quite manage it.

“Of course,” Tobirama agrees without a flicker of shame, and Madara isn’t about to let that stand. He curls his fingers in soft silver hair, wraps his free arm around Tobirama’s waist, and kisses him again.

Tobirama huffs a laugh at him when they break apart, then takes another kiss, and Madara will never tell him, but he’s already very thoroughly convinced.


End file.
